


but if you stand still

by everythingispoetry



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-16 01:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11243253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everythingispoetry/pseuds/everythingispoetry
Summary: A mere two days after winning his fourth gold medal at European Championships, at the age of 20, Yuri Plisetsky announces his premature retirement.





	1. before

**Author's Note:**

> This story is filled with things that can be described as mildly questionable life practices. Please keep that in mind.
> 
> Title from Søren Kierkegaard's "Purity of Heart is to Will One Thing."
> 
> Official thanks to KLM for offering "Dancer" as in-flight entertainment on intercontinental flights, which started the landslide of ideas. And most special thanks to **csoru** , who helped with this monster, for being wonderful, ever-patient and inspiring.

_If you go buried in your own thoughts, if you are busy, then you do not notice it all in passing. You are not aware that this muttering even exists. But if you stand still, then you discover it. And if you have discovered it, then you must stand still. And when you stand still, it persuades you._

**March 2016**

It is a year and a half after Barcelona when Otabek realises that he doesn't really know Yuri.

Yuri has been complaining about Katsuki and Nikiforov for months now, his ranting at the beginning of each Skype session has become a relaxing routine. Otabek fixes his coffee, Yuri talks in the kind of exasperated manner only a teenager could manage, and, about five minutes in, the conversation steers towards a fond _so, what have you messed up today_ and exchanging recent music discoveries.

And yet, Yuri's exhibition skate, which he does only that one time – he skated to a rock medley the whole season, in leather pants and all, which was turning into a slightly disturbing habit – is set to traditional Japanese music, a famous flute and koto composition, _Haru No Umi_. He wears a rain-blue seigaiha pattern haori and loose black trousers which flutter with the pull or air as he soars across the ice. Viktor and Katsuki seem as surprised as everyone else, so the choreo can't be theirs; Otabek never dares to ask Yuri why this particular choice. Later, he will watch the HD video on 1tvDance channel an embarrassing number of times.

There is something to the performance that puts Yuri, the gold medallist, on a completely different level than everyone else. The skate is smooth and simple. Pure. This time, it isn't the complexity of the program or its technical difficulty, but the connection with the music he presents, an impossibly refined understanding of its nostalgic mood, that singles Yuri out. To each note is attached a movement, even if the softest flick of a wrist, or a nod, or a little step. There are only two jumps, triples, synchronised with the koto's highest notes, and a ridiculous twelve second layback spin at the very end.

Throughout the program, relaxing behind the boards after his own turn, Otabek can't stop thinking, _this isn't like Yuri_ , but the point is that this _is_ Yuri as much as the professional Yuri of _Agape_ and _Welcome to madness_ and _Moonlight Sonata_ and all the quick-paced and light-hearted junior routines. Yuri seems concentrated and lost to the music, yet executes each movement with purpose and satisfaction, so he must actually enjoy himself. Otabek loves the exhibition, and if he doesn't quite know what to make of it, he keeps it to himself. 

 

In the post-gala interview for the official ISU channel, in tight English, out there for the whole world, Yuri says, "There hasn't been anyone like me before."

It would have been laughably presumptuous coming from anyone else.

(Next season Yuri's programs are aggressively Russian; Otabek graces the announcement with an undignified snort of amusement.)

**December 2016**

They are at Grand Prix Final yet again, all familiar faces; Yuri, JJ, Katsuki, Chulanont, Lee. The standings after short program aren't a surprise, with Yuuri first by three points, Yuri second, and Otabek third, so unless a certain someone messes up completely, the outcome is pretty obvious; Yuri's free skate base value is higher than others, with his new jumps. He managed to win last year with only toe loop and salchow; now, out of nowhere, he plans to add flip and lutz to his free skate. That was new. And discontenting.

"Hasn't he grown even more?" JJ asks, skating up to Otabek during their morning practice. "Shouldn't his jumps be off, not better, like every normal person's?"

 _You're the one to talk,_ Otabek wants to say to a man whose jumps are pretty legendary. He says nothing though, because Yuri executes a perfect quad lutz right in front of them, with trained ease and a nonchalant smirk. (While others have to fight for it, people like Yuri and Viktor fear perfection: they’ve been taught to live more than that.)

"Puberty's been graceful with him, I suppose," Otabek allows, an image of a sixteen-year-old JJ flashing through his mind, all stretched-out noodly limbs and angry scowl.

"Taller than you?"

Otabek doesn't respond to this lowly jibe; he's been hearing it for so long now. Yuri is, in fact, taller than Otabek, if only by an inch – and it doesn't seem like now, at almost eighteen, he will grow any more out of his 5'7".

 

The whole deception of familiarity crumbles when Yuri slips into Otabek's room after dinner-time, still sweaty from whatever he was doing instead of actually attending dinner. He smells like a wet dog, all musty and grimy, hair starting to get greasy. He's still panting slightly when Otabek hands him an overpriced room fridge drink. He takes a couple of sips, drops the Team Russia jacket right on the floor where he is standing, exposing his bony arms, and announces, "I kissed someone."

"Oh, so I am that kind of a friend now," Otabek deadpans, deciding that this conversation won't go down without him getting himself a drink, even if only a sugar-loaded cherry coke. He pops the can open and takes a long sip, enjoying the almost-pain it brings to his teeth.

"Beka."

"What, Yuri?"

"Aren't you supposed to act jealous?" he asks. There, the way he hunches his back as he say the words, deflating; the honest note underneath the obvious teasing. Otabek notices it all.

There is a moment of silence in which he contemplates, memories running at light-speed, when on earth did he send Yuri _that_ kind of a signal. They kissed, sure, but it was only a couple of times. It didn't seem to lead to anything. Not even a hand lingering somewhere after a hug, or silly words whispered in warm tickly air into each other's ears. Nothing.

"We had sex," Yuri adds, and Otabek's brain freezes.

He's not – a father figure, nor a boyfriend, nor even a big brother, but the idea of someone he is not aware of being intimate with Yuri still stuns him (and, even more so, the thought that maybe Yuri is acting like this because he needs a distraction from his grandfather's passing; it's been a few months earlier and Yuri's taken his time, but he seemed fine, as fine as one can be; the idea still flashes through Otabek's mind.) Something almost like anger bubbles in his chest but he does not let it spill into his words. He sips his coke instead, cringing a little, and lets the awkward silence stretch.

"And you thought to tell me that why?" Deflect, attack, good strategy, Otabek praises himself.

"It was dull."

" _Ah_."

"Beka," Yuri all but whines. Wait, whines?

"It happens if you're doing it wrong, sometimes," he hears himself say, without really controlling what comes out of his mouth, "or if you're doing it with the wrong person."

Yuri snickers. Otabek stares; this is all too – outlandish. Too _something_. Yuri has been moody recently, hiding himself away, ignoring Otabek's emails. This is the opposite. He's almost giddy, isn't he?

"Yuri. Are you fucking drunk right before competition?"

Yuri scoffs and does not deny anything, just downs the soda and rolls his shoulders. Otabek can name all the bones – clavicle, scapula, acromion – as they shift under the milky skin; there is no fat on them, just lean muscle. He could probably count Yuri's ribs, too, through the low-cut sides of the tank top.

"I hope you are not trying to confess that you had sex while drunk –"

"Who do you think I am, Katsudon?" Yuri protests, his voice a little too flat for someone really pissed. His usual anger isn't there, though, so there's that; Otabek has seen Yuri drunk a couple of time. It can be pretty impressive.

"Here," Otabek turns to the fridge once more, then pushes a large water bottle into Yuri's hands. "Drink it. Go to your room, shower, and sleep. If Yakov finds out you were drinking the night before the final you're on your own."

He is impressed with how it comes out: smooth, firm, professional. He doesn't sound disappointed, thank god, or confused, though he has no idea what brought this whole scene on.

"Beka," there, the whine again, and then some mutters Otabek finds incomprehensible. Yuri scoops his jacket from the floor, puts it on and zips it up, and leaves. He moves strangely, as if he wanted to be smaller than he was, folded into himself, arms wrapped low around chest. There's something unsure to his steps. Seeing him walk out like that, Otabek almost regrets basically throwing him out, but really, he has how own stuff to deal with less than twenty hours before free skate.

**March 2017**

Some three weeks before Worlds Yuri celebrates his eighteenth birthday. Otabek is not there, as he's been dealing with ankle issues since Four Continents so he can't afford to be away from physiotherapy. That is if he was even willing to get away from his coaches, which he isn't too keen on either. The season has been okay, but not _enough_. He knows he could do better; the hunger deep inside him has only been growing, unsated, after being so close to winning so many times. Sometimes Otabek feels like he cannot breathe, like he cannot wait anymore. Being Yuri's friend didn’t help, seeing him snatch gold after gold.

He skypes Yuri the morning after the party, expecting at last a mild hangover and grumpiness. Instead, Yuri is as crisp as ever, ready for the day at 7 a.m.

"Didn't you have fun yesterday?" Otabek teases, drinking his second coffee.

"What, did you think I'd get absolutely smashed and ruin a few days of training just before competition?" Yuri asks, raising an eyebrow. "Hell no."

 _Well, that's what I did_ , Otabek thinks, isn't that what all normal people do? It's not like Worlds are tomorrow.

"Besides, Katsudon is retiring after Helsinki, it's my last chance to skate against him, so I have to wipe the floor with him –"

"So you no longer consider _me_ a rival, huh? I am wounded."

"Stop, you idiot. Sure I do. But I will have you skating with me for another what, five, seven years, if we don't fall to pieces? Plenty of time for me to kick your ass."

"So sure of yourself," Otabek tries to sound serious, but it comes out more like the teasing it is. Anyway, wasn't there something about Viktor and Yuri not speaking to each other? Maybe that was why Yuri wanted to prove himself. "Did you at least have some birthday cake?" he asks, going back to the heart of the conversation. "I didn't see any photos."

"Nah, cake can wait," Yuri shrugs. Potya peeks out from behind, giving Otabek – well, the laptop – an unamused look.

 _No, it can't_ , Otabek wants to say, _you only have your eighteen birthday once_ , but it's not his thing to instruct Yuri how to relax. Maybe one day he can be there to make sure it happens the right way.

"You knew I don't really celebrate my birthday, anyway."

 _No, I didn't_ , Otabek thinks, _but I suppose now I do._

 

**August 2017**

Otabek wakes up to a few notifications of his phone; he goes through them methodically, still sleepy, barely registering what they actually are: an invitation to some boring event, a message from a DJ he met the other day, a photo from his cousin, some social media updates he mostly scrolls past.

He only stops at an instagram post of Yuri's; it's the first post of himself in a while. Actually it's the first time Otabek sees his damn face in months: they haven't really spoken since just after Worlds. They parted in anger – there was a moment when Yuri kept complaining about Yuuri retiring and acting as if he was happy with what was the end of his career, about missing beating Katsuki's record by a point, about the terribly organised gala, when Otabek just snapped and shouted at him, something he doesn't do. He just placed 4th. Again. His ankle hurt like hell, the previous sprain aggravated by a bad landing on a quad Lutz, he was exhausted, he hasn't eaten anything that actually had a taste in about two weeks, and then there was the French ice dancer Yuri was fucking, or the other way round, who cornered Otabek after the gala to gloat; he really didn't want any more details.

Yuri looks – _off_. Otabek has trouble pinpointing what exactly gives him the impression, the video is barely five seconds long so he watches it over and over dozens of times, squinting at the disappointingly small screen of his phone. It's a training scene, with Mila's voice in the background, shot from a bit too far: Yuri glides into frame in a needle spiral, legs at perfect 180 degree angle, the free beautifully turned out, arms outstretched with hands palms-up in soft lines. The camera moves to follow him to catch the moment he puts down his foot in one fluid movement, shuffles his feet to position himself, and launches into a perfect triple axel, excruciatingly big for so little speed. The video cuts off after he moves into a twizzle straight from landing, his free leg crisp.

Though the position is perfect, there is some tension to the lines of Yuri's back and shoulders; Otabek wonders if it's muscles stretched too thin over his growing body, even skinnier than before. He could never forget the excruciating repetition of flexibility exercises a teenage body must be put through; Lilia would never let Yuri slack off. Yuri would never let himself slack off. He is too proud for that.

The whole thing, while practised to perfection, in Otabek's eyes lacks the certain conviction he associates with Yuri. It doesn’t look like Yuri has anything _not_ to feel sure about, technically, of-fucking-course: it's so like him to show off a move no one else in men's division would attempt, not to mention succeed at so exquisitely. There isn't anything wrong.

Otabek just – it's a feeling, somewhere in his chest, like when one's missing something but cannot remember what.

He lets his fingers hover over the screen but decides not to double-tap; then he opens the messenger and does the thing over again but never actually types a word.

He does write Mila, a few hours later. Mila tells him they're both idiots for being unable to communicate like "adults." He ignores the comment and asks, _is he doing okay?_ She replies, _you know little Yuri_ , and then,  ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  

Otabek stops himself from another wistful sigh and lets the matter rest.

 

**October 2017**

Yuri never replies, neither to the messages from a few months ago, nor to the semi-professional questions Otabek asked about the new season. A few of times, he likes Otabek's instagram posts: three photos of Otabek's grandmother's cat, a close-up of  Otabek's new blades on a barely marred ice which he promised to the company, and a view of Big Almaty Lake at twilight. (Otabek climbed there with a few of his friends and kissed them all somewhere on the way up and on the way down, so something twists in his stomach when he sees Yuri-Plisetsky among the list of likes.)  

**December 2017**

At the GPF, Otabek is not enjoying himself; tension running too high and journalists being entirely too overwhelming, mere two months before the Olympics.

"Is the little kitten all right?"

Otabek isn't surprised to hear JJ's voice whispering into his ear; it's been a long while since the man's antics bothered him, but the question seems a bit out of blue.

"I don't know," he answers truthfully. He eventually got tired of reaching out to Yuri who never gave him any answer, prolonging his tantrum to months and months. Otabek grew sick of waiting. "I don't care," he decides, telling it to himself as much as to JJ.

"Haven't you…?"

"We're not together."

"You're not?"

There's more of genuine surprise than irony to the question; JJ had the privilege of growing up naïve. Otabek keeps forgetting that some people live in a simpler world.

"Sometimes," he lies; it seems fitting. "We're both… complicated."

JJ laughs at that and pats Otabek on the back before going back to his warm-up. Otabek lets his eyes linger on the Canadian's figure disappearing in the hallway. It's been a while since they were rink mates and close friends. JJ, besides his annoying persona, was very light-hearted, something Otabek never managed to get used to: it always felt, to a degree, like a game, like being deceived. He could understand better the people who came from places when you couldn't afford to be optimistic.

He doesn't see Yuri up close until the six-minute warm-up. Yuri is impeccable: he tries out his four quads and lands them with worn-out perfection, all worthy of +3 GOE. Then he proceeds to winning another gold; Otabek settles for silver and Yuri spending the night in his room, a silent, mutual absolution. They're too exhausted to even undress themselves properly.

When Otabek wakes up, Yuri is already gone.

 

 

**February 2018**

Otabek loses count of which world record it is.

(That is a lie, of course, but he allows himself the pleasant deception.)

Watching Yuri break his own records – all three of them, in fact – at an Olympic event of all things is exhilarating, but it makes Otabek's own bronze seem more mundane, more dull; as if being third in the world didn't quite matter. Maybe it doesn't and won't. The press and the fans will only remember the winner, the impossible numbers, likely unbeatable, unless someone brings a quad axel into the game; there are whispers of people trying, within closed walls of their rinks, but no one was bold enough to try it in front of an audience just yet.

The exhibition is two days after the free skate, so the first night Otabek lets Phichit drag him, along with Lee, Ji, and de la Iglesia, to have some real Korean food and questionable non-Korean drinks. Yuri refused flat-out and disappeared somewhere, likely to find one ice dancer or another, or maybe someone from outside of the ice to fuck, upholding the fine Olympic tradition.

In the morning, before rehearsals, Otabek goes out to town to get some breakfast and find decent coffee that would rouse him from the hazy half-hungover state he woke up in. He picks up an American newspaper from the international section of the kiosk he passes by, flipping straight through the sports section. His face, in black-and-white (who prints things in black and white in 2018?) is blank, the medal clutched in his hand. He is labelled with name and bracketed age, along with JJ; the rest is all about Yuri.

" _The inhuman perfection of his steps!"_

" _The elevation, the jumps!_ "

" _The most gifted skater of his generation!_ "

Sure, it's been like this for years now, especially since the world realised that Yuri is not just some toy, thrown into seniors for the sole record of being _the youngest_ , but an insanely, inhumanly, talented young man.

Otabek allows himself a breath of relief when he finds another article and sees no mention of his name, it's all about how Lee failed to medal, placing fifth, and disappointed his country or similar bullshit. At least Kazakhstan will be happy with him. His family, too.

(Otabek knows Yuri doesn't comprehend families; he could never understand what sacrificing someone else's life for your sake feels like. Yuri understands sacrifice on a different level: willing, never-ending, complete. His own. Otabek moved to Canada when he was thirteen with his mother, who stayed there for two years, leaving her three other children in hands of their father and a flock of aunts. It was, in hindsight, probably the most difficult time in Otabek's life, not only because of puberty and learning two new languages, but because it seemed so, so selfish, keeping mother all to himself.)

 

The day of the gala, there is another practice session in the morning; after dull breakfast they all make their way to the rink together. At some point, in a rare moment of ungainliness, Yuri trips over his undone shoelace and grabs onto the wall to support himself, cursing in Russian, a little raw around the edges.

"You know, sometimes it’s just so hard to remember," an accented voice comments; it's one of the German skaters, if Otabek remembers correctly.

"Remember what?" he replies, amused smile playing on his lips; if they were alone, he would be happy to mock Yuri endlessly, but with strangers around, he would never.

"That he’s just like everyone else."

 _Oh_ , Otabek sighs mentally. _Only that he is not_.

Otabek wishes Yuri was, and feels a little bit selfish about that, too. He wishes Yuri was simpler. But that's something he will never say.

Later, in a haze of events, Yuri falls, doesn't get up, is carried off ice by paramedics, an ambulance takes him to the hospital, and he gets, for the lack of a better expression, _shipped_ _over_ to Moscow for an emergency knee surgery. All that unfolds somewhere outside, in a different world, while Otabek and the other skaters accoutre themselves in fancy outfits and dazzle the audience pretending to be something they are not.

 

 

**March 2018**

Winning the World Championships is easy and bitter. Everyone is exhausted after the Olympic craze of the season; many performances are less than stellar. A few skaters – those who had no need to fight for next year's spots – retired before Worlds, so the crowd seems smaller, with new unfamiliar faces.

Yuri, of course, is not there.

Otabek wishes him swift return to health on national television in three languages, before making his escape from the reporters and hiding out in his room until JJ comes to drag him to the gala, Isabella in tow.

There is this low-key sensation buzzing under his skin, something Otabek cannot quite name in any of the languages he knows; a strange, electrifying mixture of apprehension, impatience, and disappointment. It's not that he misses Yuri or that he feels his medal is undeserved, under the circumstances, Otabek muses, finishing his third and last glass of champagne. The room feels to small, too small to contain all this – sadness, exhilaration, hunger, pious dedication, exhaustion, hope; among them, Otabek's own feelings, his own dreams, bigger than life, on the verge of fulfilment. The world seems too small to contain his dreams, and Otabek too small for his daring fantasies, like a child, weaving stories at night, still unlimited by circumstances of reality. The room is too small, the music too quiet. Everyone seems to be moving so slowly, limbs suspended in honey-thick air.

Otabek wants _more._

"C'mon, mister gold medallist," JJ's voice breaks through the rushed buzz of his thoughts, too close to Otabek's ear. He takes a step away and glares at the Canadian. "Time to get out of your head, chéri. Have some champagne. Come and shine."

Otabek is quick to break his own promise and accepts the glass.

 

 

**April 2018**

_I'm thinking Boléro,_ Yuri texts him one day. Otabek cannot help but roll his eyes and type back, _Lilia is thinking Boléro._ Yuri sends him a string of signs Otabek can't be bothered to decipher.

"You know, I need something good enough," Yuri says later when they Skype. "Like, fierce."

"Whatever you end up doing, you will show off insufferably, I'm sure," Otabek replies around a bite of his dinner. He skilfully ignores the way Yuri has been glaring at his food for the past five minutes, uncannily intense for someone stretched over a computer screen. "Tell Lilia to find you something more original."

"Yeah, like you can talk to her like that," Yuri sighs. He's drinking tea with jam; Otabek is a nicer human being so he doesn't let his stare be too judgemental. "But Kirilov will let me do whatever music I want."

"The new coach?"

"Yeah. I think," Yuri stops, uncharacteristically, and looks away from the screen, "I think Yakov told him to trust me."

Yuri has a lot to prove. But it's not like him to hesitate. Otabek wonders.

(Otabek will feel a little but proud, later, that he helped with that damn program music; Yuri somehow manages to persuade Lilia to choreograph a free skate to _Shine on you crazy diamond_ for him, and, predictably, the media cannot get over what a bold statement the music for the rest of the season, and beyond.)

 

 

**May 2018**

Viktor asks Otabek if he wants to be in his ice show. Otabek says no, just like last year. He usually skates in shows in the US, anyway, and so much travel doesn't seem so tempting in the off-season. Also, there is a certain unspoken promise to Yuri, ever since that thing between Yuri and Viktor and it seems like going over to Japan would be a breach of the delicate loyalty.

Most of what is between Otabek and Yuri goes unspoken, undiscussed, they work around each other naturally. Otabek trusts his instinct: maybe such a commitment is not necessary, but he does it anyway. It feels right. It feels like one of those famous small steps.

 

 

**October 2018**

At the beginning of October, five weeks to Skate Canada and six to Rostelcom, their first qualifying events, Otabek arrives in Saint Petersburg. Yuri has been back on ice for almost five months: the whole world has been observing his recovery, mostly though endless instagram posts from all the team. The timing was quite unfortunate; Yakov planned to retire months earlier but instead of handing a new world champion over to the next coach, he had a recovering and a very angry Yuri to wean off.

In one of the few summer interviews, Yuri, dressed all in black and sickly pale, stood leaning against the rink boards, novices training in the background, replying to questions in stilted English.

"No, I never considered moving abroad. There just wasn't – see, Russians, we think differently. We work differently. I didn't think moving out of here was a good idea when what I have here works for me. I've been all over the world but this is still as close to home as anything."

Quite rehearsed, in Otabek's insignificant opinion: it was the first time he ever heard Yuri say anything about a home, but that's something people want to hear. It sells.

That was back in August; Otabek only remembers it after he joins the practice – he's in the city for a couple of days only, business more than skating itself: an endorsement deal too good to pass up on. After all the contracts are discussed and signed, he has the time to take Yuri up on his invitation to skate. 

The weather is hardly nice. It's cold, temperature just above freezing, with drizzle turning into downpour and back into drizzle. The sun sets too early and rises too late; daytime is almost two hours shorter than Almaty. There is barely any sunshine; Otabek checked the detailed climate charts after seeing the disappointing forecast; apparently Saint Petersburg gets less than half the sunshine of Almaty and twice the rain. He curses the too easily-accessible bad news throughout breakfast, but leaves the hotel in still-wet dull grey shoes and a dull grey raincoat the same. At least he fits in with the dull grey crown in the dull grey city, one of the many grumpy figures scrambling to hide under anything than resembles a roof. Everything feels damp, from the clothes in his wardrobe to the freezing air at the ice rink. Otabek leaves absorbent bags in his skates all the time, just to reassure himself.

He thought about staying at Yuri's, but they mutually agreed against it. It's just a couple of nights, and the place is tiny and packed. When his grandfather died, Yuri refused to stay in the old flat – _it reminds me of him_ –- but also refused to get rid of all the furniture and a mountain of unnameable items, boxed up and blocking the hallway for anyone whose hips are wider than Yuri's – _they remind me of him_. Otabek didn't try to understand. The result was, honestly, rather claustrophobic.

Yuri has been talking about moving out for months. Otabek hasn't yet found out the way to distinguish what he actually means from what he doesn't. At least the invitation to train is genuine.

 

The next twenty-four hours unfold like a play in three acts, when Otabek thinks about it later; his grandmother has always said he has a tendency to dramatise, an old-fashioned knack for grandeur, which he applies to just about anything.

This is act one: though there are several skaters at the afternoon practice, Otabek can only pay attention to Yuri. Fifteen minutes into the session, he gives up on trying to work on his jumps or do a run through his short program step sequence like he planned.

"One more!" Kirilov shouts and Yuri does a few crossovers, slaloming between younger skaters, and leaps into a quad loop, landing it with a slight wobble, free leg maybe not as controlled as usually, but _quad loop_ , hasn't he been recovering from injury instead of adding a new fucking jump?

"One more!" Kirilov shouts again and Yuri repeats the sequence, correcting his leg at the landing, holding it high and steady and launching into a lazy spin at the exit.

"From the top," Kirilov orders. Otabek stares: he's seen bits and pieces of the program through Mila's videos, but this is different. Quad lutz-triple toe as the required short program combination? Who does that?

After the run-thorough, Yuri disappears with Kirilov for some time, leaving Otabek at Mila's mercy. They chat politely – _what's working with a new coach like_ , _what are your costumes his season like_ , and so on. Otabek cannot quite focus. He thinks about what Kirilov must have though when he was offered the challenge of Yakov's heritage. He seems to be doing… well enough? Otabek isn't sure how to classify it, really. The man seems harsh, with a permanent scowl on his face. Maybe Yuri needs someone harsh, someone _more_ than everyone else; it's only fitting for someone who already got his third GPF gold at the age most skaters would only be joining senior division. Among everything else.

When Yuri comes back, he scolds Otabek for slacking off and challenges him into a series of ridiculous exercises which Otabek greedily accepts; he doesn't get to train with people near his level very often. No one knows how to judge their nonsense so after half an hour they call it a tie and get off the ice shaky with adrenaline.

In the end Otabek does find himself at Yuri's, stumbling through the doorway and instantly bumping into something, Yuri already sneaking past him and tugging him along the too-narrow hallway, in darkness.

In act two, they don't really talk, apart from making sure – _do you want – yes – yes, yes_ ; they don't make it a big deal, occupying their lips otherwise, and their hands. The flat is quiet, apart from an occasional thud in the pipes and squeak of the bed and the soft rush of rain outside. It's cold and pretty dark but Yuri seems unconcerned by the surroundings, so Otabek ignores that, too. He focuses on Yuri, the blond hair looking like silvery moonlight among shadows, the outline of Yuri's body tangled with his, unveiling themselves slowly as clothes come off, piece by piece, and fall to the floor.

 

Half an hour later, it seems like the rain stopped. Soft hum of traffic emerges from the silence when Otabek, still naked, opens the kitchen window; it's cold, he shivers despite feeling hot, his heart still beating fast, as if he's just skated an exhausting routine. The world outside is gloomy, dots of street lamps and windows standing out like stars. Otabek's eyes gotten used to the darkness by now; he can make out the shapes of the furniture.

It seems like nothing has changed. And yet.

His heart is still beating too fast.

"Beka," Yuri calls from the other room; he's probably still atop the bed, languid and soft, just how Otabek left him. Maybe still flushed. "Beka?"

Otabek sighs, taking a deep breath of the cold air in a vain attempt to clear his head a little.

"Yeah," he mumbles, walking back into the room. He finds his underwear and t-shirt in the tangled pile near his feet and puts them on, before sitting on the edge of the bed.

The second act unfolds how it started: almost-silent.

They shower, Otabek goes first, so by the time Yuri is finished, he's closed the window, turned on the oil heater, and boiled the water for tea, admiring the orange-blue gas flame dancing underneath an old kettle.

Yuri enters the room and turns the light on, sharp fluorescent glow fills the room, blinding Otabek for a moment, instantly dissipating the quiet world of shadows into nothingness. Yuri is leaning against the doorway, wearing black briefs and an short black robe, _surely it's silk_ , Otabek thinks. It's open and loosely hanging off his shoulders. He is pretty sure he's seen it before – in a magazine photoshoot, probably, a few months back.

They've slept in the same room – and bed – before, used the same showers and changing rooms, so Otabek has become rather familiar with the pattern of scars on Yuri's skin, but _this_.

He knows he is staring. Yuri doesn't seem to notice, and if he does, he must not give a fuck.

The scar on his knee in new, of course, still pink and not silvery like most. (Otabek has been mentally cataloguing them for a while. Not that he doedn't trust Yuri but he just prefers to be sure.) But then – Yuri's body is _gruesome_. His bones are sharp, more so than they've always been, as if they were to cut through his skin at any moment. The bruises – on his knees, his hips, the whole side of his thigh is purple-blue, the rest surely hidden under the veil of his robe. He's already wrapped his toes, so only their purple-red tips are visible. The arches of his feet are scraped raw.

They all look like they've been through a war, figure skaters, but this is something else.

"Yuri," he says, breathless, forgetting any other words; what could he ask when he knows all the answers?

Yuri doesn't seem to notice Otabek's tone. Instead, he takes a few light steps – how can he still manage to move like that? – and asks, pointing a finger at Otabek's face, "do you want tea, or do you not want tea?"

Otabek swallows and nods slowly.

"Just no jam," he remembers to remind Yuri; he refuses to put anything but sugar, milk, or cream in his tea, like any respectable person.

Yuri makes the tea, grabs something from the fridge and sits down. Otabek takes his glass before any jam can be forced into it but – Yuri doesn't seem in the mood. He sips some of the too-hot liquid, and proceeds to ice his newly-healed knee and Otabek doesn't ask if it's a smart idea. Today he saw Yuri more than ready for his comeback; in the stillness of the room he wonders what would people say if they knew what was the price.

Yuri opens up act three.

"Tomorrow," he says, scooping up the rest of the jam from the bottom of his glass, "I wake you up early. I want to show you something."

 

Early, obviously, means 5 a.m. Something is, apparently, back at the rink. Swaying along with the creaky tram on the way – it's still absolutely pitch dark, tree-leaves thick with first frost of the season – Otabek entertains the idea of hating Yuri a little. He couldn't really, not after last night, the sex was too good, but it's a close call.

The rink opens at 6 a.m., he's been informed; no one seems surprised to see Yuri there so early. That would make Otabek raise an eyebrow, if he had the energy. He just follows Yuri through the maze of corridors, the fluorescent tubes reminding Otabek of the creature in Yuri's body he saw yesterday, so raw and open, so brave, so _reckless_.

"Wait by the rink," Yuri point towards the big door and disappears down the hall, Otabek has no choice but to follows the order. His finds himself a spot on one of the benches and glances at his phone, the flight is in five hours. He needs coffee, his luggage from the hotel, a hot shower, and then taxi to the airport. Even if he has rush, he's not willing to give up on his routine.

He hears Yuri before he sees him, familiar sound of plastic hitting the floor, so he looks up.

Well.

"Like it?" Yuri asks, a little cheekily, noticing Otabek's surprise. Yuri's wearing what presumably is his new costume. The design is very different from his usual choices, the colours, the delicate finish, but also–

"Watch," Yuri says as he steps into the rink, drawing lines with long simple strokes on the unmarred ice; Otabek doesn't even have the time to ask if he warmed himself up at all. Yuri knows what he is doing. He doesn't seem eager to run through a program, or show off his absurd jumps this time; he simply skates, and boy, if it isn't a testament to why he always scores above 9.5 for skating skills these days, then Otabek doesn't know what is.

And – among all those competitions, training sessions, rehearsals, spotlight-filled ice shows, Otabek has never seen Yuri like this: so alone. There is no one else around, the stands are all empty, the ice barely scratched, there is no hustle of people, no voices, no music but the sound of blades cutting through the surface, clipped and sharp; and their breathing, almost like an echo emerging from the remote hum of machinery.

The creature he saw yesterday, tired and achy, made out of scars, bruises, cuts and sores, all muscles stretched over pointy bones, it's gone now. As if it was just a phantom of Otabek's imagination. Yuri flaunts his shiny costume, fitted perfectly: long white sleeves hooked on his fingers, arms melting with the ice until he brings them up in a dramatic reminiscence of fifth position, and the whole décolletage embroidered with a shiny lace. The trousers are light blue, tight and simple, his legs like long soft shadows floating across the surface. The delicate fabric and sequins cover up the whole purple-grey mess up of a body ankle-to-neck; it looks _ethereal_. Scintillating.

Despite how gigantic the space they're in is, Yuri steals all the attention, fills up the whole hall, as if he was ready for more, the most brilliant – most beautiful – monster to be awake at this ungodly hour in the whole city, the whole country. The whole world. He glides across the ice like a galaxy, with its own undeniable gravitational pull.

Otabek doesn't dare to fight it.

He recognises the hunger, building up in Yuri's movements, concentrated but slowly getting bored with the simplicity of his exercise; he knows what to expect but it's not his place to say anything. Yuri, in all possible ways, is an adult of figure skating, a veteran even. So Otabek simply watches the crossovers, the twizzles, the mohawks and the rockers, and a sudden triple axel from spread eagle, delayed, as if he was suspended in the air - although rationally Otabek knows it's about 0.7 of a second, a blink of an eye, and _yet_.

Despite Yuri's invitation, it feels personal, almost like overstepping an invisible line. Otabek doesn't know what to do with this impression. He thinks about what he saw yesterday – what he is watching right now – and he is sure, more than ever, that the answer to _was it worth it_ is always going to be _yes_.

 

Later, while waiting for his plane, Otabek remembers the interview and re-watches it, considering Yuri's words. There is another reasons for staying, one thing Yuri dared not say: _if any_ sane _coach saw what it takes_ …

**November 2018**

Otabek watches Yuri compete in NHK through a Russian-hacked Fuji TV livestream, skipping gym for dance studio, empty this early in the morning. The phone is carefully positioned on a little stool in front of him. It takes his mind off the dull ache to his tendons and muscles as he stretches and stretches and stretches, eyes fixed on the miniature people dancing on the screen.

He already guaranteed himself a spot and Yuri had one gold under his belt so it's pretty much impossible that he doesn't qualify; theoretically there isn't any special excitement in watching the competition. But when he sees Yuri – after that time in October, when _ever_ he sees Yuri, he indulges himself in thinking, _mine_. It's silly and embarrassing, as if he were a teenager in a cheese movie, but he ignores the rational part of his mind.

He thinks, _mine_ , he thinks, _I helped with this programme_ , he thinks, _I will have my hands all over you._ The newfound intimacy seems terribly stretched across continents but Otabek thinks, too, _I will see you soon._

**December 2018**

Yuri, of course, comes back after his injury in style: he wins both his qualifying events and then takes gold and at the GPF again and beats his own world record in combined score by an easy margin of four points.

Only because Otabek has been studying Yuri closely for years now and he's intimately familiar with Yuri's mannerism, he can tell that there is something off to Yuri's movements, and it's not because of the coach change – he's seen that back in October, and during qualifiers. Today, he simply is all slightly _too_ _much_. The execution in insane: the jumps high, not as much as a wobble on any landing – on his _five_ different quads in FS – the spins tight and dizzyingly fast, the step sequence humanly impossible and yet meticulously danced. Every twist and turn, every change of edge, every flick of his wrist and turn of his neck sharp, practised, and yet lyrical: it's the highest presentation score ever achieved, of course; the audience goes crazy. It's enchanting. And terrifying.

Yet watching Yuri's free skate from the sideline, with every singly muscle movement attached to a particular note of music, Otabek can't shake off the impression that it's a puppet moving through the ice.

It's a perfect performance. But it isn't Yuri who delivers it.

Yuri smiles on the podium, sharp and reserved. Otabek is on his left, clutching his bronze medal and letting his heart beat a bit too fast with more than just pride and excitement. Even if it's not a real smile, he hasn't seen it on Yuri's face for so long.

"Congratulations," he says in Russian. Yuri turns to him, his lips still curled in that small smile, and nods. What has changed? (What has changed so fast - or he is it that he never noticed, too wrapped up in his own version of reality?)

"You too," Yuri offers; there is that note Otabek can't quite pinpoint to his voice, one that sends a shiver down his spine – but before he can say anything more, Yuri's already back to staring at the camera, waving his bouquet of golden roses.

 

"Ride?" Otabek asks at the banquet, after a couple of hours of mingling, having exhausted the shallow well of his patience.

Yuri nods and follows Otabek out of the room, his still-full wine of glass deposited onto one of the tables as they pass. He's been nursing it since the beginning of the party. 

The ride is long and silent. A pair of bony arms is wrapped around Otabek's waist in a familiar way, yet the touch seems cold, all of his body does, the necessary embrace isn't warmer than December night's crisp air. Otabek can see Yuri in the rear-view mirror: head tilted slightly, long hair dancing around his neck in the wind, eyes fixed on something faraway. There it is again, that look, for a moment, his gaze empty. As if he's somewhere else in his head _._

This is not the boy Otabek asked to be friends four years earlier, nor is it a grown-up version of him, he realises suddenly. It's not the boy-turned-man he's been fascinated with, infatuated even, plenty angry at. It's not who he imagined kissed him and fucked him mere weeks earlier, and hopefully will again, in the depths of this night. They’ve lived alongside each other, crossing paths every now and then, but they've never ended up sharing lives like he hoped, he's lost Yuri somewhere on the way. He let Yuri be lost. Maybe he wasn't strong enough a force to keep Yuri his.

It's a stranger holding tight onto his waist, Otabek thinks.

(Maybe, subconsciously, he's realised that before, because he cannot bring himself to be disappointed.)

**February 2019**

When Otabek wins gold at Four Continents, everyone seems surprised, it's only by sheer force of will he manages to nail the free skate after a fall in short the day before. He's pretty sure he's sprained his ankle but he refuses to give up, he has Yuri's Europeans' gold to chase and match up to. It takes some negotiating and involved slightly questionable but completely legal medical decisions: a few shots of painkillers and anti-inflammatory drugs, an almost-cold burn he get for icing his leg overnight, and a tightly wrapped bandage support that feels strange in his boot all throughout the program.

The gold is less than two points over Chulanont's silver. Otabek can feel the medal's sweet weight over his fast-beating heart, and when they are done with the ceremony, he takes it off and clutches it too tightly in hands, in lieu of gritting his teeth in pain, until they are out of the public areas, and he gets scooped away by the physio-coach nagging team.

In the hotel room, signed out of exhibition and numb with adrenaline comedown, Otabek just dozes off on the too-big bed for half an hour before he's able to deal with anything again.

When he wakes up, there is a message from Yuri blinking at him from the devilishly bright screen of his phone. It says nothing but _2:1_. Otabek laughs and laughs, letting all the bottled up tension out of his body, but he manages to school his face into a scowl and takes a selfie showing Yuri the middle finger, which he promptly sends.

 

**March 2019**

The morning after Yuri's twentieth birthday, Otabek wakes up early. The view of Milan outside is tinted pink, with the softness of dawn. The hotel suite looks out directly on the Duomo; Otabek doesn't want to know how much the room costs. Yuri's been staying here for a few days at the expense of a company he's modelling for. The room is a double, although a party of twenty people could still be comfortable in the vast space; no one batted an eye when Otabek asks for a key.

He can only join Yuri for a day, travelling between rinks in Montreal and Almaty, a less than a month before Worlds. It is a rare occasion to have Yuri all for himself for those sixteen hours; worth even the two additional layovers and flight changes he had to pay for out of his own pocket. It's a strange arrangement – Yuri's been shooting in the mornings and training afternoons and evenings with his choreo. Yuri is just as exhausted from his training as Otabek is from his delayed flights. They eat dinner, have sex, and fall asleep silently before midnight, wrapped around each other in a tangle of limbs.

 

In the morning light, Otabek can see the room is a mess, Yuri's clothes mixed with those from the photo session and training, a few towels discarded into a damp pile on one of the upholstered armchairs. Otabek sneaks out of bed and skilfully ignored the chaos, making his way to the bathroom. Yuri hates people invading his space – there's always a " _do not disturb"_ sign on his hotel door.

He takes a piss, washes his hands and face with cold water and turns around to go back to bed when something catches his attention. There are white bottles of medicine on the side cabinet. His heart skips – Yuri wouldn't be that stupid, would he? But then who the hell knows what is going on in that silly head.

Otabek studies the bottles carefully. Three different types of painkillers that are inevitably familiar and – _paroxetine_. Otabek frowns at the unfamiliar name. He puts away all meds but the last one, sneaking back into the bed with the bottle in hand. He lays on his back and googles the name: there are four and a half million results to choose from. He clicks on the first link and reads.

When Yuri starts to wake up, half an hour later, the room is flooded with warm morning light. Otabek is still in bed, naked, observing Yuri's sleepy movements. The blue pill is sitting on his open palm. Yuri doesn't seem surprised at this scene; he stretches, some of his joins cracking, pleased with it as if he were a cat.

"Yura."

"Huh?"

"How long?"

"…a year - a year and a half, now," Yuri says, staring at the ceiling.

A year and a half.

_Two seasons._

If it was another life, if they were other people, Otabek would be tempted to ask _what is going on_ or maybe _were you going to tell me_ – or at least _are you okay._ But this is reality, buzzing in Otabek's ears; reality in which they never speak. Instead, Otabek inhales deeply and stares. Yuri returns the stare. In another world Otabek would maybe persuade himself to pretend that he's never noticed the void behind Yuri's anger, the blankness behind the blaze of his eyes.

He extends his hand and drops the pill into Yuri's palm and watches him dry-swallow it with practised ease. They never break eye contact, as if daring each other to disrupt the silence; they let it stretch for a while.

"I'm late," Yuri finally says.

Otabek knows for a fact that Yuri doesn't have to be at the studio for another hour, but he also knows Yuri's routine well enough to realise that Yuri is right; he takes so long to get ready. Shower, hair, make-up, outfit, all tended to meticulously and mechanically.

But now, before all of the rituals happen, Yuri looks – fragile. The unfamiliar thought is unsettling. Otabek's heart picks up as he watches Yuri stumble out of bed, his thin angular frame suddenly strange, even if covered with a familiar map of scars.

The soft touch of anxiety doesn't disappear until Otabek lands in Almaty. (Or maybe it's never really gone.)

 

 

**April 2019**

Otabek knows the old figure skating lore tales about Chris. He's never taken them seriously until now, though. He wanted – no, he needed to talk with someone. That someone had to be a figure skater to understand what Otabek wanted to say without actually saying it. That someone certainly couldn't be anyone with a close relationship to Yuri, or _be_ Yuri.

He and Yuri have to talk, of course, at some point. Probably. Otabek lets himself believe that it's Yuri's choice, effectively taking the decision out of his hands; it's a coward's move. He is not above that.

(The other reason is a conversation he overheard once, a long time ago. It must have been what, 2016? Ah - early November. They were all at Skate Canada.

"I choreographed a program for Phichit and wanted to see him skate it," a voice said; it was Chris, just starting out as choreo. There is some shuffling.

"Leave me, you fucking pervert," Yuri spat quick, almost a reflex.

"You're of age now," silence, more shuffling. Otabek could imagine them standing at an arm's length from each other. Yuri was smaller back then. "You've lost weight. Are you taking care of yourself?"

Otabek frowned at the words; he noticed Yuri looking skinnier, but he assumed it was just the growth stretching Yuri's limbs out. But – Yuri says nothing. The silence must be an answer enough for Chris.

"Is anyone taking care of you?" he asked, in a voice… not exactly worried but – heartfelt. The words made something warm and strange stir in Otabek's stomach.

Yuri, of course, didn't answer.

Otabek remembered it all a lot later and wished he asked the question in a right moment. He was the only one who could have gotten some kind of an answer. But maybe no – maybe _he_ was the one supposed to take care of Yuri.)

So, through the labyrinth of figure skating community, Otabek finds himself in Geneva, on a beautiful Saturday, sitting in Christophe Giacometti's living room. It's cold and sunny outside; earlier in the morning Otabek spent the whole taxi ride shivering and trying to understand the driver's bizarre version of French.

"I'd ask you what brings you here, if I didn't already know," Chris says, pouring them both tea. He's wearing loose-fitting pants and top, glasses on. The white fluffy cat seems jealous of Otabek, purring at him in low dangerous tones and tangling itself between Chris' legs. A soft sound of piano music comes from upstairs. "Sorry about that," Chris smiles tightly, "Masumi teaches the neighbours' kid a little."

The whole thing is outlandishly domestic; there are even little birds flying through the garden, singing loudly, completing the serene scenery. Otabek wonders what it must have been like for Chris, to have always lived here, to have always come back here. Most people he knows have been pulled between so many places, or for long enough, that they don't really belong anywhere but on the ice anymore.

"I told him once, you know," Chris spares Otabek the grinding process of articulating. "Some time ago. I heard he was sleeping with lots of people..." Otabek nods. He _thinks_ he knows. "I told him, endorphins from sex do not count as a mature way of dealing with depression. Well, I might have worded it a bit differently, it didn't seem like he'd appreciate such a blunt wording."

"He wouldn't," Otabek agrees, nodding.

"That was, I believe, a year before you two started sleeping together?" Chris continues calmly as Otabek chokes, feeling his cheeks heat up. "What, you thought I wouldn't know? I am an expert in romance, after all," he gives Otabek a wink. Otabek understand what he is doing. Lift the atmosphere. Make him feel more comfortable. Build a sense of trust. Connect. All those psychological things he's never paid attention to; but they work. He lets himself relax a little, melting into the comfy chair.

"But the point is, at least I put something out there –"

"Yeah. That was then," Otabek cuts in, quickly doing the math in his head. "It was about that time he started taking meds. He said."

"Oh?"

"He didn't want to actually talk," Otabek says, instead of elaborating, which is a bit of a lie. He didn't dare trying to make Yuri talk. He didn't trust himself with it. (He knows it shouldn't change anything, but he doesn't know how not to look at Yuri differently.)

"No, I don't suppose he would… I tried to tell him a few more things, back then. He wasn't very keen on listening either," Chris chuckles into his teacup. The steam is making his glasses foggy. "There was one other thing I said that might have. Well. He was just eighteen and he seemed to… I said, _you’ve chosen the worst of currencies to measure your worth in_."

Chris takes off his glasses and puts them in the table. He doesn't voice it out loud, but his eyes seem to say, _think about it._ They seem to say _please,_ in the way one's parents say please. Stern. Concerned.

Suddenly, the piano music dies. Otabek can hear a high voice, a young girl's voice, chirping happily. The floor creaks. The house is all wooden, Otabek realises, glancing around; he didn't pay attention.

"Well," Chris sighs. "We'll go to the market, get food for dinner. You can stay, or go for a walk, or go to the rink. Or come with us."

"I'll come," Otabek decides, might as well. Switzerland is truly a beautiful country; he hasn't been there since his parents took him to 2014 Ice Legends, for a (very) early coming-of-age celebration.

For the rest of his short stay, Otabek climbs Mont Blanc, visits Lyon and Basel, goes on a boat trip with Masumi when Chris is busy, skates, eats his share of off-season cheese in one fondue session, and exchanges no more words about Yuri with anyone. The few things Chris said to him and had said to Yuri are enough.

On his flight back, Otabek can't stop thinking about all those times _he_ said nothing.

 

 

**April 2019**

Otabek lies when Yuri asks where he is going. Explaining Chris was easy enough, his reputation as choreographer has been steadily growing since he retired and the facilities of his Swiss sports complex were legendary. But explaining this would be too much.

Viktor offered to come to Almaty. Or Canada. Or wherever Otabek might have decided on training. He refused, though; something was drawing him to Japan, as if it promised an answer to unasked questions, in a way no other place could. He knows Yuri hasn't been talking to Viktor and Katsuki for a long time now; the details are still elusive. Yuri never wanted to talk about it, apart from _so I punched him in the face_. 

The plane arrives on time. Immigration is swift, too; soon Otabek finds himself on the metro line to Ōhorikōen Station.

("We’ve got a flat there," Viktor said, "a nice view of the lake. Only a few stops from the rink. It's easier when we're working, people can fly in and out without the few hours-worth travel into Kyūshū."

It's not exactly… Otabek rather wanted to see Hasetsu.

"We'll take you to Hasetsu, though," Viktor said, as if reading his mind over the phone. "It's different for friends than just for clients."

He never quite understood how he was labelled as a friend, especially after the great Plisetsky-Nikiforov fallout, Katsuki as collateral damage. But there he is, in Japan, ready to see the program to an appropriately dramatic cut of Fauré's _Pavane_ he asked Viktor for.)

Viktor is waiting just outside the gates, a dog sitting obediently next to him, familiar from all the Instagram photos. It's a new poodle they got recently, still a little puppy. Otabek almost wants to roll his eyes; this poodle thing has been so over the top; he could understand getting a new one when Viktor's childhood pet died, but five might be an exaggeration.

"That's Nao, isn't she the cutest? The rest are back at home," Viktor says, reading Otabek's mind again. "Welcome," he adds. His smile is as dazzling as ever. He hasn't changed much; only his clothes are plainer. No designer labels; it must be Katsuki's influence. He looks tired.

"Thank you," Otabek says and couches to pet the poodle; he has to admit it is very cute. A bunch of schoolgirls seem to agree, too, cooing and laughing as they pass.

"How is Chris?"

They are friends who have common friends, in Viktor's head. Otabek still thinks it's a little far-fetched. Also, he doesn't want to be accidentally roped into telling Viktor why exactly he decided on going to Switzerland just now, so he deflects.

"Isn't he coming here in two weeks for your show?"

"Which you turned down," Viktor pouts. Otabek almost feels ashamed; he's turned Viktor down third time in a row. Because of Yuri. "Yes, he is. I see. Well, let's go. It's ten minutes on foot, I hope that's okay."

It takes twenty minutes in the end, half of which they spend on watching Nao play with neighbour's shiba inu. Viktor chats with the lady in soft Japanese, making her cover her mouth and giggle a great number of times, while Otabek shuffles his feet and looks around. The landscape resembles a serene painting with three layers: first trees in full bloom, then an uneven line of tall buildings, and finally, in the background, crisp shapes of mountains.

Must be a nice view to wake up to, he thinks when they enter the flat: it's bright and open, with large windows across the room: from tenth floor it must overlook the park and the cityscape.

"Welcome," Katsuki is waiting for them at the dining table, laptop and a mountain of papers set messily around a vase of extravagant flowers. They haven't seen each other for a while; while Viktor travels, Yuuri does his job mostly in Japan.

He seems – mature, in a strange way; he's put on some weight but looks good in the black slacks and shirt combo, hair slicked back. He's finally changed his glasses to some fancier frames, Otabek can't fail to notice – it's been a running joke between skaters for a long while now. He looks tired, too. Worn out, like he hasn't slept well for a while.

"Thanks for having me," he replies and bows slightly. Katsuki smiles.

"I know we've never been as close as you and Viktor," he says, smiling slightly. _Viktor and I_ , Otabek thinks, _close?_ but then he realises it, too, means _you and the Russians_ , which means _you and Yuri_. "But no need for formalities. Please call me Yuuri."

"Otabek," he says, and they exchange another round of bows. Viktor just stares, looking delighted, while Nao runs around the table, paws sliding on the wooden parquet – "and the other dogs?"

"Oh, I meant Hasetsu home," Viktor smiles again, a little bit tighter. "You will see them soon enough! Now, tea?"

Otabek agrees and is shows the guest room by Yuuri, Viktor disappearing in the kitchen. The view from the window is as stunning, angled a bit differently.

"That’s Maizuru Park," Katsuki – Yuuri says. "Good place for morning runs. And Art Museum. Famous modern art collection, if you are interested in that kind of things."

Otabek nods; he might as well be.

They drink tea and leave Otabek to settle - _we've got a couple of hours before we go out_ , because apparently he has to be treated to a dinner at the famous yadai.

 

The food stall is more fun that expected, though the hygiene is questionable, reminding Otabek of some side-streets of Almaty in a distant, bittersweet way. Though Japan is too different, too absorbing, to leave any space for any real nostalgia for home. The ramen and untranslatable dishes – _is that intestine, Yuuri? – I think so? –_ turn out to be quite excellent, as is the plum wine.

Maybe a bit too nice, Otabek thinks, when it's eleven and they are all pretty drunk, enough to slip in their native languages into the mix of sloppy English. Enough to say words they'd never say sober.

"So… That exhibition skate. Worlds, in 2016… Do you know what t'was about?" Otabek asks the question he didn’t want to ask and promptly drowns his drink. There is a long moment of silence between them, almost too long to be comfortable even for people in a certain state of inebriation.

"He liked Japan the first time, even if he was too angry to admit it, I think. " Viktor finally replies, words slow, and then takes a large sip from his glass. "He never said anything, of course, we didn't exactly… already…"

"T'was after the argument – after he hit you, after all the… " Katsuki trails, narrowing his eyes in concentration; his hand finds Viktor's and gives him a tight squeeze. "We weren't speaking. Already. Not really."

Otabek could swear he remembers Yuri gushing about Yuuri's programs and placements – didn't they share the podium? – and retirement after that time, full of anger, but more exasperated anger than anything else, at least that's how it seemed. But clearly, he knows nothing about how things happened. Or what actually happened. Something more serious than he thought.

"I think," Yuuri adds, lowering his voice, as if sharing a secret, "he thought he couldn't come back, because of that – because of us."

With how drunk he is, his voice shouldn't be this serious, Otabek decides.

"I think he was saying goodbye."

Viktor doesn't seem to acknowledge these words, swirling the rest of his wine in his glass, the ice cubes rattling quietly, but his hand is clutching Yuuri's so right the knuckles turned white. _Oh_. It's like that, Otabek realises, they are right; somehow. Maybe. _O-oh._ It's like a knot inside his chest has been undone, though he cannot quite understand how.

He wants to blame Viktor on Yuri's behalf but he finds it impossible.

 

They wake up early and restless in the morning, tired and hungover. Yuuri makes everyone smoothies and disappears – _he's got an appointment he can't miss, my poor Yuuri_ – and Viktor goes through the components list and diagrams he's prepared for the program.

"We can get on the ice in the evening, after we've rested… I will be at the rink earlier. You can take your time, go sightseeing, and join me around eight, everyone else will be gone by then."

Otabek nods; he knows Viktor is working on his show, too.  

They don't say anything about Yuri again.

(That doesn't mean that Otabek stopped thinking about him – Yuri is in Moscow, his instagram says, a photo from last night in front of the Bolshoi Theatre with an equally sandy-haired teenager Otabek vaguely remembers, tagged #ballet4ever #bolshoi #offseason #rinkmates. He seems – well. He is smiling. Otabek can't say how he really is like, with the night lights and Yuri's customary make-up. His arm is wrapped around the boy's shoulders.)

Otabek knows he appears close with Yuri, everyone just assumes; people assumed long before they actually started having sex. But it's not much of a relationship, really. It's not much of anything. They’ve only been _together_ for half a year, and it's been only a few times – they're rarely on the same continent, in the end.

 

In the next few days, Viktor teaches Otabek choreography and offers advice on step sequences and the opening quad lutz combo.

That is the reason Otabek came, but not the only lesson he learns.

Staying with Viktor and Yuuri turns out to be easy when they are not home, which is most of the time, and overwhelming when they actually are home, which is some mornings and some evenings, when Otabek feels, more than ever before, that he shouldn't be there. It's not that they aren't welcoming, it's just the level of privacy he feels like he's invading is frankly overwhelming – even if he doesn't understand half of the whispers, or the words when Yuuri speaks with someone on the phone, with the exhausted way he says Viktor's name.

He watches Viktor, in those few scenes, intimately and from up close like never before, how the man functions and how Katsuki works with him, around him, how he has to coerce Viktor into stopping, into sleeping, into eating, into anything that is not obsessive work. It's been years since they both retired, and yet… They seem happy, in flashes, here and there. They are so in love it's nauseating. But, for the most part, they act like they are fighting an endless battle.

"It's been pretty…" apparently a sight and a hand wave are supposed to explain it. "Well. Recently. Sorry about us… it's easier, sometimes," Viktor says, the evening before they leave Fukuoka. They are alone, sipping beer on the balcony. Otabek could imagine Yuuri saying that. He doesn't know how to take it from Viktor.

But he watches Viktor and then translates it into Yuri, filling up all the blank spots. Maybe that's why they couldn't deal with each other – being too alike. Having been made too alike. Seeing too much of themselves in each other.

For the last two days, they drive down to Hasetsu. Otabek walks the streets and visits the sights, feeling trapped an vaguely sick; Katsuki family and friends are really nice so he acts a little guilty about being such a bad guest. He can't bring himself to face all the people, though, choosing to stay in his room or running away to be alone. 

He spends his time in a daze, imagining Yuri walking those streets, some five years ago, angry, impatient, hopeful. A child. He stares at the konbini, the train station, the castle, and wonders in anything has changed.

This is where everything started. This is where the Yuri he met back at Yakov's camp disappeared. This is _why_ he disappeared. This is when he decided to give himself up, for the sake of someone who would win, always win.

That skate – a goodbye, in Yuuri's words.

A goodbye indeed.

 

**May 2019**

Otabek agrees to fly to Canada through Moscow, since Yuri asked. It's the first time they see each other since Milan; they haven't even Skyped, only talked and texted and liked each other's posts on social media.

During the plane ride, Otabek readies himself to initiate a conversation. He wants to ask all the questions, say all the words he's been collecting, all the words that have been running through his head for two months now.

As soon as he sees Yuri, they all evaporate from his mind though. All the courage is gone.

Yuri is waiting at the airport, leaning against a pillar, wearing fitted jeans and a black turtleneck – how can someone pull off a damn turtleneck so well, it's not fair – and he's smiling, lips curled slightly. He's playing with car keys with an Eiffel Tower keychain; Otabek recognises those.

"Morning, Beka. You look like a mythical monster chewed and spat you out."

Otabek stares, just for a second, before rolling his eyes and saying, "why thank you, kitten."

"Told you not to call me that, moron," Yuri's voice is warm.

Whatever he's trying to do, however he's trying to avoid the subject, it's working. Otabek very quickly discovers he wants nothing but to drive and fall asleep with Yuri's body next to his. Just sleep. Just tonight.

And they do – Yuri drives like a madman, taking Otabek to Radisson Royal, a room with a view over Moskva River. Otabek vaguely remembers seeing the décor in some of Yuri's instagram posts, something about promotional endorsement and all – one of those deals that only every seem to happen in New York, and, apparently, in Moscow – he doesn't waste time on studying the surroundings too much.

(It's one of those things Yuri seems to get himself into, a natural state. Otabek, throughout his career as a skater, has always worked hard to pay for what was given to him freely.

Everything that Yuri has ever been given was conditional.)

They undress, slip under the thick duvet, and fall asleep, Yuri's head on Otabek's chest, his hair tickling the side of Otabek's cheek. For one night they belong in each other's arms and nothing else matters. 

Otabek only realises a while after he's left that maybe Yuri didn't _trick_ him into not discussing his – issues, distracting him with everything else, but that it might have not occurred to him that someone would even care to listen. 

 

 

**November 2019**

Yuri takes the season's first gold, at Rostelcom, and the second – they are at Skate America together. Otabek gets silver. Some kid takes third; Otabek doesn't even feel bad about not remembering the name.

He sees Yuri swallow his medicine. He kisses Yuri's lips until they are swollen. He introduces his cousin to Yuri over Skype. He applies make-up to Yuri's jaw, where a purple bruise from a bad fall has been in bloom for a few days now. He wraps his ankles with athletic tape and laughs his ass off when Yuri dances a ballet parody of JJ's newest program in the hotel room; then, he wraps Yuri's knee with bandage. He doesn't think. This one time, he doesn't think, doesn’t turn everything around in his head endlessly, doesn't replay memories, he just – he lets it be. He lets the world happen.

He kisses Yuri's lips. Yuri kisses him, French-style. He says he learned it in summer, when he trained with Lilia's friends in Paris.

"Should I be jealous?" Otabek asks honestly, because he isn't.

"Of _ballet dancers_? Pfff. I told them it's practice for my very scary boyfriend," Yuri replies, and laughs. Otabek joins in.

There's something missing, Otabek knows, something is – misaligned, underneath the shiny surface, underneath their press smiles. But it's okay.

The last night, he holds Yuri closer.

 

 

**December 2019**

At Grand Prix Final, Otabek meets the boy from Bolshoi photo. His name is Nika and he's fourteen, first time at Junior Grand Prix. He's in third after the short program, having messed up his triple axel and when Otabek meets him, he looks like he's walking the thin line between hitting someone and bursting into tears. Yuri disappears in a bathroom, leaving them standing in the empty hallway a little awkwardly.

"Nice to meet you," Otabek says politely, nicely depicting the adult he is supposed to be.

"You too. Yura talks about you," the boy replies, still in a child's voice. He seems relieved Otabek speaks Russian.

"Does he," it's not even a question, really; Otabek is better than to drag a child into a flirting game. "I've seen you train together."

"He's helping me a lot, yes."

"Teaches you jumps?"

"Not really," the boy shrugs, "like, steps. Choreo. He says it's more important to get the basics first, because my jumps are likely to be messed up when I grow anyway. Says people are going to remember me more that way. I don't really know…"

"That sounds reasonable," Otabek says, trying not to show that he finds it as unbelievable as Nika himself. That isn't – too _Yuri_.

"You think so?"

"He's the number one in male skating, isn't he? I suppose he knows a thing or two."

Nika laughs; Otabek mentally congratulates himself. Sure, he's had a lot of practice with kids and teenagers on his cousins, but people and skaters are not exactly the same.

Otabek studies Yuri interacting with Nika when they're on the way back to the hotel. He's not – not like an older brother, or like a coach. But he is dead serious about what he says, and listens to the boy's words, which seems to mean everything. (Otabek wonders if Yuri realises what he is doing, giving others what he was never been offered himself. Keeping promises.)

Yuri says he need to rest tonight and that it's better he and Otabek stay in their rooms for the night. Otabek agrees. He cannot fall asleep for hours.

The next afternoon, Otabek wins bronze, after Chulanont and Yuri who now ties with Viktor for five consecutive GPF medals.

Yuri is twenty. He smiles at the cameras, holding his head high, his medal close to his hear.

He thinks of the anniversary of his first gold the way people think of their birthdays, Otabek knows. They all matter, all the golds, but the first one – that was crossing his personal Rubicon. Yuri says more or less that, at the press conference, while everyone fawns over him, and skilfully ignores any question remotely connected with Viktor.

After, he disappears before Otabek can try to talk to him. So Otabek ends up in his room, alone again, sat in the final straddle stretch of his end-of-day cooldown. He's put on the online 91.9 Sports on his phone, enjoying the flow of Québécois into his ears, and maybe only a little hoping to hear a compliment about himself. It's one of those days.

Instead, there is this: _"…the impossible fifth consecutive gold at such young age, all while growing, he's barely a man, a few months before his twenty-first birthday! Do you think he will be able to keep the momentum for a few more years? He's still some titles behind Nikiforov."_

_"Nothing suggest otherwise, Jean. He's the holder of all current world records. If he skates clean, he wins. Right now, his rivals can only hope for gold at competitions he doesn't start in, or if  he messes up. And no one likes to win that way."_

Otabek snickers; that's fair enough. He has his own gold at 4cc to attest to that, yet he's yet to win against Yuri.

(He wonders what they would say if they knew. Would it change anything? Surely they'd make him a martyr, that's how those stories sell.)

 _"… he is like,"_ Otabek just missed the first half of the sentence, _"you've seen him skate in person, of course, but to those who haven't had the chance – when you see him skate, glide across the ice, execute the jumps flying, it gives you the impression of watching a person made for something more, something better than yourself and everyone else, which you can only understand in a vague, impressionable way. It's unbelievable. It never grows old."_

Otabek brings his legs out of the stretch, muscles tingling as they relax into a normal position. His wrist aches remotely from a fall during warm-up; it might be a little sprained, nothing too bad. He'll rest back home.

 

This season, Yuri's exhibition is The Doors' version of Albinoni's Adagio In G Minor, a piece Otabek showed him once, not too long after Barcelona, as a friendly attempt to persuade Yuri that his taste in music was far too punk without saying _it's a little cliché, the young rebel thing_ , and mentioning that everyone snickered at Yuri's antics behind his back.

He is dressed in a black t-shirt and slacks, hair undone and flying freely. He skates slower than in competition,  more dance-like, exactly what the music begs for; the edges are fucking perfect. It takes nothing away from the beauty that it obviously would never work for a competitive program: he jumps an easy double axel from a spiral, lifting up his right arm on the take-off and switching it to his left as he lands, in a ballet-like motion, in an obvious homage to Curry; a few crossovers and then he slides into spread eagle and makes an eight-figure, then slides into a needle spin. The flow is breathtaking. Otabek notices the Paris ballet training in his free leg, the arms, his posture; maybe even more that others because it is exactly what he himself lacks.

After a dizzying fifteen-second spin, the music ends right when Yuri kneels on one knee, wrapping his arms closely around his chest and resting his forehead on the other, breathing heavily, more so than the program would call for. He takes a long moment to stand up to the ovation; Otabek wonders if he's crying, but Yuri only thanks the audience with a wide smile, bowing elegantly.

The skaters appear on a cue; Otabek's spot is next to Yuri. They have held hands many times during _all on ice_ but he's never noticed Yuri's hands being so cold.

Pretty much everyone gets a bit drunk at the banquet; Yuri never touches the alcohol but acts well enough. Somewhere in his hazy mind, staring at Yuri dancing with Mila and then Sara and then Phichit, and then finding Yuri is his own arms during an absolutely dull tango, Otabek finds the words to say what he couldn't put his finger on for such a long long time.

So he drags Yuri out of the room and a few turns away, safe from others' eyes and ears, he wraps his arms round Yuri's waist tightly and whispers, "you look less and less like you're here, every time I see you."

Yuri frowns as if he didn't really understand but Otabek knows him too well too fall for that, there's something in his eyes, behind the glassy adrenaline mist. He takes a breath, pauses for a moment, and the places a soft kiss on Otabek's lower lip, so soft it could have been a gust of wind, a figment of imagination. Then Yuri wiggles out of his grasp and walks away.

 

 

**January 2020**

Yuri gets his gold at Europeans which surprises absolutely no one. The night of the gala, Otabek celebrates his cousin's birthday; he ends up rather drunk and sends Yuri a string of messages that go unanswered. He doesn't think anything of it; they are used to being like this. Temporary.

The next morning, he wakes up too early. It might be almost noon but he slept less than five hours and still feels a bit drunk; he can't fall asleep again though. There is restlessness buzzing ender his skin, unyielding, anxious. It's Four Continents soon.

He sighs heavily, might as well get some back tea and water; maybe it will make the rest of the day earlier. A few minutes later he sits at the table with a cup strong plain Assam and enjoys the sip of the bitter tea, almost-burning his throat pleasantly. It's Monday; he already moved the training to the afternoon but since he is up, he might as well take mother out for early lunch.

He never asks her, though. When he turns on his phone from sleep mode, it bursts with messages and notifications – what on earth? – and anyway she's already sent him a link to an article on sport-express.ru, which by default makes his heart stop and it's –

– oh. It's –

_… a mere two days after winning his fourth gold medal at European Championships, at the age of 20, Yuri Plisetsky announces his premature retirement…_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think you see an obscure reference to something or someone, you're probably right. Congratulations. 
> 
> Part 2 is being edited and will be up in about two weeks.


	2. after

Otabek does end up having lunch with his mother. She hugs him tightly when he arrives to the restaurant. Otabek can hardly bring himself to hug her back. She lets him not talk, too, and orders for them both.

He spends most of the time staring at his phone despite knowing Yuri won't actually reply to the messages, furiously typed on the bus. He feels a bit numb and out of place, as if the reality shifted slightly but he didn't move along with it, as if he missed a step out of a sequence and could not find the flow. His fingers tap nervously at the table until his mother's hand covers his, her long gloved fingers wrapped around his.

"Don't worry," she tells him, in the same tone she would when he was a child, sweet and reassuring. "He's young."

"He's never been young," Otabek protests automatically because that is not the word he would ever associate with Yuri.

"He's young," his mother repeats wistfully. Her stare is hard. "Young people can be reckless."

That, Otabek agrees, Yuri is. Reckless. Persistently reckless.

"I don't understand," Otabek says because he doesn't: they talked less than a week ago. Yuri, laying on the floor as comfortably as one can in a side-oversplit, complained about his rinkmates and Lilia and showed him some photos of a cat he met earlier. His hair was messy, slightly greasy from training, and he picked the chapped skin on his lips until it started bleeding. He laughed when Otabek translated a French review of JJ's newest album which mostly focused on how Québécois is  _an awful crime against the French language._ He scowled when Otabek put sugar into his mint tea. It was all absolutely normal.

"Give him time."

"You can't say that seven weeks before the Worlds, mother, and you know it," Otabek replies unnecessarily. She understand what a life of a figure skater is like, of course, and she means more than he thinks about, of course; it's just that he can't bring himself to look past what it means in the simplest and most immediate future. Not yet. "I should have known something's not okay," he adds, unsure what he means by that: such a vague statement encompasses more than he can image right now, in is far less precise than he'd like to be.

"You are not responsible for some else's decisions."

"Yes," Otabek agrees. "Yes, _but_."

Mother doesn't question what he means by that.

 

Otabek turns off his phone, throws it at the bottom of his duffle, and goes to practice. He translates all the anger and restlessness into the power of his strokes and the strength behind his jumps; he stays there longer than he should and falls more times than usually, exhausting himself completely. When he gets home in the late evening, there are several messages from people who associate Yuri with him, all asking questions he doesn't know the answer for so he ignores them completely. There isn't any word from Yuri, nor any further official information.

Only around midnight, when Otabek is falling asleep, fatigue winning against restlessness, he gets a message from Mila. It says, _we briefly talked, he wouldn't answer any questions, said he's okay and said he's going away. idk what that means. be in touch xxx_

 _Thank you, Mila_ , Otabek types back and slowly descends into restless sleep.

 

He's woken up at 6:26 by a phone call from Chris.

"Fuck you," he mumbles into the microphone, trying to untangle himself from the sheets.

"Good morning," Chris' voice sounds tinny, echoing in the room. _Wait_ , Otabek tells himself in sudden realisation – isn't Geneva four hours behind Almaty?

"Sorry," Otabek says, calming himself down a little. "I haven't slept properly in a few days."

"Yes, of course," Chris allows. There's some rustling in the background, and a thud of a door being closed. "I have seen the news, of course, a little bit late; we were away. I wanted to check up on you."

"My mother already did that," comes out of Otabek's mouth, and Christ laughs lightly. "I'm okay," he adds, and says again, just because he has an occasion to articulate it, "I'm just frustrated. I don't understand."

Chris gives him a moment of silence over the line.

"Don't you?" he asks eventually.

Otabek considers the grey zone he and Yuri have mostly existed within: moments between agreeable, worn-out silence – clammy hands all over each other's bodies, hot and hungry, and the pride swelling up in in his chest.

But he still doesn't think he understands.

 

Yuri shuts everyone out; the only person he contacts is Mila and all he says is that he's _fine._ Like hell, Otabek thinks, reading yet another piece of news between the four languages he knows. He had calls asking him to comment, his coach did, too; they both refused. There have been no comments from Viktor and Yuuri, either. Or Yakov. Or _anyone_ , actually, apart from Kirilov and Russian federation, in which they confirmed Yuri will not be competing in Worlds and refused to say anything about remoter future.

So morning after morning, Otabek's anger slowly fades, substituted by the feeling of betrayal, and he observes the process with a strange clinical detachment. He's never thought himself a cold person, despite what just about anyone would say – he can be very stoic, sure. He is, most of the time. But if _he_ chooses not to be an emotional exhibitionist, that doesn't mean he cannot actually feel.

Every day Otabek drives the bike through empty streets of the city on the verge of waking up, taking the long way; the pull of air as he speeds feels refreshing on the small patches of skin that are exposed between layers of wool and leather. January unnoticeably melts into February; winter this year is quite warm, for Almaty standards. Even the rink feels colder, sometimes, when Otabek forgets his gloves and his hands clash with the ice over and over again, until they are red and sore.

As he enters, coach gives him _the look_. Otabek wishes he could do something other than shrug. Coach sighs and Otabek does, too, and then blasts the most awful upbeat music he manages to find. He's pretty sure his rinkmates are ready to murder him any day now. As soon as they decide it's fine to pick on a heartbroken man, that is – that's exactly what Aliya says to him, one morning. Otabek chokes on his sip of water and stares at her with his most incredulous look, which does not phase her. She's eleven. She has a very different idea of what the world is like.

"I'm not – _that_ ," he protests even though he knows this is a battle he cannot win against a Disney-weaned child.

(That evening, Otabek comes home and does look at photos and messages from the last few weeks – months – trying to find some clues. The more he thinks about it, the more messed up it all seems, but he's not any closer to coming up with an actual answer. Yuri always says questionable things and attempts the dangerous, but they all do, that’s how it fucking works.)

Otabek is aware that he is exaggerating with his training, by the thin line coach's lips are pressed into, by the hushed whispers all the girls exchange at the boards, by the knowing looks of first shift workers, by the amount of bruises his body is covered with, and the soreness to his muscles. It's – more. But it's not too much. It's not anything than he cannot take. It's for the wrong reason, of course, because he can't fool himself into believing he's doing it only because the days left to Four Continents are turning into single digits. But that's fine. The result is still the same.

His body, however, cannot stay so tense for so long so he gives in; one Saturday, he sleeps for fourteen hours straight and ends up at an open DJ club on the outskirts of Almaty with a few friends, busying his head with everything but Yuri. He has the right feel angry and betrayed. But he will not let himself worry.

 

Four Continents seems to happen out of nowhere; it doesn't feel like so many days have already passed. Almost a month: it's nothing, really, but it feels like an age in Otabek's bones. He is tired with his mind playing games on him: he wants the season to be finished, but he's never felt that strong before, skating-wise. He's never had such conviction. He wants gold. And he can't stop thinking, _if only_ … It's obvious what the comments will be like if – when – he wins, and it fuels the leftover anger that never ceases to simmer somewhere in his chest. He deserves a fair game. He won't get a fair game. He needs to get over it.

Yuri sends Mila a message every few days. Otabek thinks Yakov also knows something, but he cannot be sure, it's not like he can call and ask. The whispers coming from Russia must be protected better than some state secrets.

The flight from Almaty to Seoul is as boring as it gets, and as inconvenient. It leaves at 0:50 am and arrives at 9:30 am, after the time change; at least the business class seats are spacious enough for Otabek to stretch himself as he tries to doze off; he's far too jittery to succeed, though. It's not a good idea, he will end up properly jet lagged, but he cannot quite help it. The flight attendant is nice enough to not question him asking for sparkling water and seaweed crackers every half an hour while the rest of the cabin sleeps in semi-darkness. She also doesn't mind when he asks for a double espresso, and then a regular one; the smile never falters. There is something warm in her eyes, more than just professional façade; Otabek wonders if she recognised him. He's flying Air Astana; it's possible. She doesn't mention anything so neither does he.

Otabek plans on defending last year's gold which isn't as easy as he would like. It's been a season of strong programs and improving performances, and now all of the old crowd is old enough that it's become their job to keep the load of fresh ex-juniors in check.

As soon as his phone is on at the airport, a message from Viktor pops up. He wishes Otabek good luck – of course, it's his choreo – and says absolutely nothing about Yuri. Otabek decides to accept it without thinking. It's not really the time for mind games.

_Thanks. Training's been good, I will do my best._

He sighs, pocketing the phone, and follows coach to get the suitcases, praying silently that nothing was lost and they will be able to take a nap in the hotel before afternoon practice.

 

Otabek wins gold. He's almost more proud of avoiding gossip, or people asking him about Yuri, or people asking him to gossip about Yuri, than of the medal. Almost.

He lets Phichit, who won silver over a seventeen-year-old Korean, get him slightly drunk at the gala. He ignores what Phichit doesn't ask about; he promises to fight him for gold at Worlds, though. That he does as they dance a waltz, which Otabek only agreed to because most people have already left, including all the sponsors and all the underage kids, and because Phichit really is an excellent dancer and his accent is pretty amusing when he lets himself become sloppier with each drink he downs.

Maybe it's also because Phichit will retire after Worlds, which he hasn't announced publicly yet. They've shared the particular predicament, being the one and only decent contender from their respective countries, forced to move out, learn a language, seek after people until they were good enough they could make their own rules. Otabek isn't as altruistic, though. He's never had Phichit's drive to be the messenger, the foundation stone for something more; it's a great feeling to bring pride to his country, but he doesn't want more responsibility. He hasn't thought about it just yet (okay, he's been trying not to think about it, especially ever since.)

A bit after midnight, Phichit asks, "will you come to Bangkok to skate in a show? I've wanted to do one for so long."

Otabek nods in agreement, the champagne glass wobbles in his hand. He will go, and, he suddenly thinks, he will say yes to Viktor, too, finally.

There is no reason not to.

 

It's surprisingly casual, being back to life just like he did for the last four weeks, thought now it meant coming back to his flat where the newest gold medal is hung on the wall above the kitchen table, over an outdated calendar. It'll be taken down when someone comes to visit, Otabek has some decency left, but for now though it acts as a seal of the promise he made to himself. He's hungry for another gold, another win. Personal best. Maybe a jumping pass he's never done before, if he manages to get it. Something new, something shining, something _splendid_.

"If you land the lutz-toe more than seventy percent, I will let you do it," coach says the first morning when Otabek is taking a break, trying not to let the girls crawl all over him. They are novices, and even though they've been training their quad sals in harness which no one would ever dream about when Otabek was their age, they still collectively gasp every time he lands a jump.

Otabek lands it ninety percent by the time they have to fly out for Montreal. It feels strange, skating in a place that used to be his home, years ago – how long has it been, seven years now? – but at least the space is familiar, and he doesn't have to worry about anything because JJ forces himself onto all of Otabek's plans. Otabek barely manages to refuse staying at JJ and Isabella's house. Maybe, if circumstances were different. But now he has to focus. He doesn't want any distractions. He's been dealing with one for a while now.

It's gotten easier, not thinking about Yuri. Otabek knows he is Moscow, via Mila, and that's about it. He's even stopped seeking any information religiously, sometime at the beginning of March he couldn't make himself look at Yuri's name anymore. Speculations, allegations, gossip. Images of Yuri from years ago, still tiny and skinny. Theories. Images of Yuri from his return after the Olympic accident, and even a photo from a summer training camp from 2017 in which Yuri looks like a wisp of nothing, dark bags under his eyes and sharp cheekbones, an images that still hunts Otabek because whatever happened that summer pushed Yuri to find a doctor and start taking meds; that summer they never really talked.

Otabek is sick of chasing and trying, always.

Nothing of what the media show sounds remotely like any version of Yuri Otabek's gotten to know.

 

In his free skate, Otabek lands the lutz-toe and while the jump is not splendid, so probably won't add a lot of GEO points, the base value itself is good enough. He lands all the jumps. The axels, his favourite, have the kind of power in them he hasn't felt in a long time, the balance feels perfect, the length feels like flying, his free leg on exit completely controlled as he moves right into the following elements. He knows he will never have the soaring, ethereal feeling to his skating; his strengths lay somewhere else.

He loses to Phichit by 1.28 point and it makes him angry, for the first few moments; he remembers the first time someone with a score over 300 was off the podium, which had seemed impossible until it happened. Phichit did the performance of his life; his version of _Firebird_ is, despite it being such an overused piece, is unlike anything Otabek has seen before.

Otabek cannot believe Phichit is really going to retire until he does his iconic _Shall We Skate_ program at the gala and starts to cry halfway through, and takes a long while to calm down enough to speak. When they're all on ice, at the very end, Otabek gives Phichit a smile and thumbs up; it's only partially for show.

This is how it should be, he thinks. This is the right way to leave: this is the way they all deserve to leave, to a standing ovation that lasts too long. With a satisfied smile.

"I've been planning it for a while," Phichit say later, at the party. "Someone might have stolen my thunder a bit," he laughs lightly, eyes bright with tears; he keeps crying on everyone's shoulders.

Otabek inhales and exhales. He thinks about the silver medal sitting on the desk of his hotel room, and the interview he had to twist his brain for because understanding one's fourth language is easier than speaking it for the first time in months. He somehow made his way through it and took the first opportunity to leave.

He inhales again and gives Phichit a hug. Later, he gives Phichit a kiss; just one and excellent.

"Mhm," Phichit comments eloquently, licking his lips. He seems content. "Save the rest for someone else, eh," he adds. Otabek, if he was a few year younger, would have blushed and stammered. Instead, he lets out a short laugh, maybe a bit too bitter. But he does not give out any more kisses. He wants a certain pair of long-fingered hands to run down his spine and travel down his thighs, he wants to feel their cold grasp around his wrists. He wants the blonde hair to tickle his neck. He wants the most beautiful celebration.

Instead, he sneaks out of the gala, jerks off in the shower and settles for a glass of overpriced prosecco to be sent up to his room. He lays on the bed naked, a few dark bruises looking like shadows in the strangely-lit room. It's very quiet, despite the busy city outside, one of those ultra-modern buildings with soundproof everything; only the air conditioner hums lazily.

Otabek sips the prosecco. The bubbles feel just like the cheap champagne on his tongue, the taste is sweeter and more delicate though, so he savours it sip by sip.

When he's almost finished, cosy, muscles all loose, his phone suddenly lights up and starts vibrating, the buzzing sound loud and out of place. Otabek sighs, puts the glass away, and makes his way to the table where the phone keeps flashing

– and stares.

The bright screen stares back. _Yuri_ , it in a thin white font. _Decline_ and _Accept_ , in their red and green. It's been something like three signals.

Otabek keeps staring; the medal, still sitting on the desk, just next to the phone, seems to glitter. Five signals – six – seven. Otabek doesn't have voicemail on his private phone; people know better than to try to reach it.

Should he take it? Maybe he should take it. But he's drunk, and suddenly so angry: maybe it's something silly, something petty. It's not like Yuri would explain himself, or apologise, it's not something he ever does. Or maybe – Otabek's heart skips a beat – maybe it's an emergency, maybe Yuri is about to do something stupid, Otabek's still not sure if Yuri's in his right mind, honestly – he lets his fingers hover over the green button just for a moment, before pulling back. Nine signals. The tenth doesn't come.

The phone returns to lock screen, with _Yuri – now – missed call_ burning Otabek's eyes.

"For fuck's sake," he mutters under his breath. Only because he's inebriated he thinks about calling back, and doesn't scold himself for feeling tense with hope for another call, sitting on the edge of the bed for the next few minutes. It doesn't come.

 

He stays in Montreal a few days after the championship, stuck with JJ and Isabella which isn't as bad as he makes it sound. Pressure off, they can finally behave like normal human beings. The times passes too quickly.

Back in Kazakhstan, Otabek spends the week going from a visit to a visit, official to official, thanking his coaches and family, sponsors and chairmen, the skating federation and all the committee and subcommittees that he can name, and just about everyone in the universe. He receives too many gift which he promptly donates to either his remote cousins or local charities. It feels like the suits has melted in one with his skin, the spring is just as warm this year as the winter. Rationally, climate statistics say it gets as hot as +35 degrees in Astana but it's not really something Otabek fancies trying out on his own skin.

At least the hotels they book the Hero of Kazakhstan in are fancy, so much nicer than his small flat; he enjoys it as much as possible, the only repose between interviews and hand-shaking and award-receiving.

On Wednesday, Otabek's flight is scheduled to leave for Almaty at 16:20. He sleeps in, suffers through the last interview he has agreed to – by now he's really said all there was to say – and eats a nice lunch with some semi-friends he's known not too well but for quite a long time now. On his way to the airport he wistfully decides that going back home and getting rid of all the luggage he's been dragging about sounds like a dream. A century of being left alone would be appreciated.

Because the universe doesn't want to give him a break, when he steps of the plane and turns his phone back on, all he can do is swear; a couple with a young kid gives him an unison scandalised look but he cannot bring himself to apologise.

It's _the thing_ all over again. It's fucking Yuri, of course. Otabek needs his damn break.

 _Yuri Plisetsky's exclusive interview with Sports Illustrated!_ the headline shouts, posted forty-three minutes earlier; it's an eleven hour time difference. An American newspaper. States are just waking up. Figures. Depending on what Yuri said, Russian media might have not been keen on the story.

Yuri's in so much fucking trouble.

On his own volition, of course. That doesn't mean Otabek won't add to it by blaming Yuri for the hungry eyes of the reporter hunting for him at arrivals. Otabek manages to dodge them and make his way out without more than _I just got off a flight, I am unable to comment at this time_ , which comes out professional and remotely apologetic though his face is probably saying something else.

Somewhere among the news headers, quotes, comments, fans' analysis – just how much content exactly can people create in under an hour, do they ever sleep? – Otabek sees that one message.

 _I wanted to let you know_ , Yuri's text says.

The call from the Worlds, Otabek realises, Yuri wanted to let him know what we has going to do and what, predictably, would be the reaction. At least he, or someone, had enough decency to wait until the buzz from Worlds died down on its own, giving all the champions a few days of undisputed fame and undivided attention.

The taxi drive home takes thirty-two minutes, exactly. Otabek spends it on ignoring the driver and typing and deleting sentences on his phone, until they're already in front of his building and he hasn't found the way to reply.

"Thank you," he hands the money to the driver, who helped him with the suitcases. They are too heavy. Just thinking about dragging them up the stairs makes Otabek tired. Honestly, thinking about anything other than sleeping for twenty-four hours makes Otabek tired but – he supposes he has to see the thing. He's curious, in a way, even though he doesn't exactly the article to be enlightening. All this, Otabek knows, is a publicity stunt; Yuri's been hurt and he wants the world to acknowledge that. He wants his anger to be indisputable. That's so like him. Maybe he's got the right to do that, too – but Otabek simply wants to scrape all the facades off.

(He wants to make sure that there's still something left inside this crystal-cut shell. He wants to see simple joy. The smile he was once gifted in Barcelona. The cheer before his winning free skate at Four Continents. The almost-reluctance when they stood naked in front of each other. Ferocity and strength not fuelled by anger. Gold medals won with passion and not out of habit or out of spite.)

Otabek, surprisingly, finds the elevator working, so he gets to the seventh floor without running out of breath and almost-pulling muscles in his arms. He leaves the suitcases in the middle of the room, bothering no further than to take out only his skates, and moves to the kitchen. First: make tea. That always helps.

At the table, he powers up his laptop, types in the web address and gets stuck at staring at the headline of the website, hands wrapped around the cup, almost too hot. The words bring back the anger he's been nursing ever since Yuri's disappearance, burning him for the inside. Anger with Yuri. With himself. With things he cannot name.

Otabek skips half the introduction; he could recite all of Yuri's accomplishments from memory; he only focuses on the texts when his eyes catch _2018 Olympic Games._ He takes a few sips of the tea, a couple of deep breaths, and starts reading.

He doesn't get very far.

His heart is hammering, as if he was a young boy caught red-handed; it feels wrong. So wrong. It's – if it was someone else, maybe. Someone unimportant. Someone he's never been close to. But it's _Yuri_. His… well. Not exactly boyfriend, or anything like that; but they were close. Some of the time, they were close. Otabek doesn't know how to classify _now_ , he doesn't know what they are now and what the will be in the future, if they will a have a future, but right now, reading these words feels like violation. Even though those words are out there for everyone – Otabek cannot stop thinking if they really were not enough for Yuri, _all_ of people who were there for him, so that he had to go out and bare himself in front of the world like this – it feels wrong. It feels like a hand clawing its way into Otabek's insides and twists them, making him feel like throwing up.

He downs the rest of the tea; the leaves have been seeping for too long. It's bitter at it tastes just right on Otabek's tongue.

For a few minutes, he sits in silence, hands tapping on his knees, impatient. He wants to know. He wants to understand. He wants the details and the explanations, and he wants the insight in Yuri's mind, he wants his words, the cadence of his pronunciation, the accent. He wants the warmth of Yuri's breath on his nape. He wants it intimately, personally. He wants the real Yuri. This – this is _not_. He doesn't want this.

His fingers are quicker at automatically going through his phone than his unfocused mind.

"Beka," Mila's voice cracks over the line. It's quite… well. He cannot really describe it.

"I can't read it," he says. Mila stays silent for what feels like a century.

"He's an asshole," Mila finally declares, something raw to her voice; she must have been crying, Otabek realises. Has Yuri said something about her? Has he said something about _Otabek_? "I did, I read it, and it's…" Another pause. Otabek might be gripping his phone just a bit too tightly.

"Did you speak to him?"

"He wouldn't," Mila replies. Then, after a thought, she goes back to her interrupted thought.  "It's honest, he's honest. He's never been exactly secretive or anything but I suppose I never asked."

" _We_ never asked."

"Don't read it, maybe," Mila half-asks, half-states. "Try… maybe speak to him. I know where he should be, from a few days ago. I can give you a number –"

"No," Otabek cuts in. No. He can't. He wanted to, but not now. It's Yuri's decision, it's Yuri's thing to deal with; he's chosen to do it on his own.

"Otabek," Mila sounds almost pleading.

"Mila," he replies, slow. "I won't. Believe me, I tried all I could."

"I know," she concedes. They don't say goodbye.

Otabek tries reading some Russian websites, instead of the English one. (He leaves the tab open, just because. He isn't sure why.) He notices a couple of quotes that catch his attention; somehow, it feels different, easier, reading them in Russian. Less artificial. Though Yuri is fluent in English and it probably made sense for him to speak the language, Otabek can imagine the soft Russian words rolling off Yuri's tongue, whispers in the middle of the night. 

 _I slept in my coaches' house, eating the food they gave me, following their schedules, taking orders_ , one quote says. _My private life consisted of a suitcase, a phone, and my cat. Living there was like being trapped in luxurious prison. But I could never blame them: they gave me what I needed to win, and that was all I wanted. They came from the generation in which you had to sacrifice everything, so they did. So did I._

It's not a revelation. Otabek has seen that unfold in front of his eyes but seeing it put into words, condensed into a sentence, suddenly seems like too much because they cannot convey everything: just dry facts. Just descriptions of feelings. There are long months of Yuri's life, of their lives, hidden somewhere between those words.

Otabek looks at the accompanying photos: Yuri standing on European's podium, gold medal in one hand and a bouquet in the other. Yuri off-season, brace still on his knee. Yuri in Agape costume, mid-skate, on the way to his first world record. Little Yuri winning his first Junior GPF, with another quite underneath: _When I became good enough, Russian Skating Federation helped with training and travel costs. They're good at that. But then you're dependent on them. You've got a debt of honour to pay back. I got sick of all that, sick of people thinking they own me because I owe them something._

Otabek can't read anymore.

The article is some three thousand words long, and there are more, many more, but he cannot bring himself to look at any of them: he closes the tab, hesitates for a second, and closes _Sports Illustrated_ website, too, them slams the laptop lid shut.

It's eight; barely dusk. The city is just waking up. Otabek has just finished the season, having medalled in all the competition he went to. It is now: he is free. The precious weeks where he can carve out more time for himself, see everyone he's been neglecting, do everything he's been putting off. Eat. Make music. Hike. Sleep, most of all. Go out.

"Fuck it," he mutter under his breath, grabbing his phone from across the table.

 _22@Crystal_ , he send to the whole of Almaty-based group.

 _did u hit ur head_ , Maxim replies instantly. Otabek laughs. It's a fair assumption, but he knows what when he asks, they'll all be there, if only because he so rarely has the time.

He leaves his phone, sheds his clothes as he walks towards the bathroom, and jumps into the shower.

 

They all get drunk, and end up in a few clubs much more questionable and much less fancy than Crystal. Much less official, too, at least the last one.

Otabek is back home around six, when the city is already lit up with morning light, sun on the verge of rising. He gets some samsa on the way, eating them as he climbs the stairs – maybe the functional elevator was a dream of his overwhelmed mind, earlier, because it refuses to start again. When he enters the flat, he trips over the smaller suitcase which he left right in the middle of the hall. Somehow, it makes him laugh.

He remembers to plug in his phone, which died sometime around 2 am, to the charger by his bed, and falls quickly falls asleep.

 

Otabek doesn't read the article. He refuses to offer an official comment on it to anyone who asks. Instead, he focuses on doing all those little things he's had on his mental list for months now: he goes home and sees just about everyone, enduring the kisses and the hugs and the aunts pinching his cheeks as if he was four, not _twenty-_ four. He bakes a sad "healthy" version of maple syrup loaf. He spends too much money and time getting some new bike gear. He plays football with the nine little cousins he has, and brings them ice cream from the nearby shop. They're all equally dusty and sporting wide white-tooth grins, and devour the cones, sat on the curb of the pitch. The weather is lovely, summer-like, and the air smells so familiar.

Otabek hasn't felt home in a while.

(Here, he almost manages not to think about Yuri, who has no one to go back to.)

"I'm going to take some days off," he says when the family asks him what are his plans now. "Just a little bit of training, decide on the music for next season. Then I go to Canada, and later, in May and June, shows."

"The States, again?"

He nods in agreement, but then remembers, "maybe Japan and Thailand, with friends."

"With Yuri?" Alina pipes up, innocently.

She's just five. She wouldn't know. Mother gives Otabek a long look. This is how far trying to avoid thinking about it goes.

"Not this time," he replies, mustering a smile. That's enough of an answer for he. Mother is not so easily fooled.

"I read the article," she says later, when the crowd has dispersed and they're loading the dishwasher. Her English in excellent. "You didn't."

Otabek glares but she knows him too well, so he gives in too soon and looks away. He can't quite bring himself to speak, so he shrugs instead, and continues the rinse the plates.

"Don't you think it'd give you some answers?"

"If he wanted to give _me_ answers," Otabek says through gritted teeth, "he can speak to me himself. I don't care what he has to say to the everyone in the whole world and beyond."

"Maybe you are too harsh on him," she suggests. "You know how he grew up better than I do. It couldn't–"

"I know," Otabek cuts in, handing her the last plate. Not he doesn't have any excuse not to look at her, even though his eyes must say more than he wants to show. "Mother. I know anything you might want to say. I know. But I've done all I could. It's not up to me anymore."

She doesn't say anything to that, just nods; Otabek cannot tell if she thinks he's right or that he's so wrong there is no point in correcting him. He isn't sure himself.

 

 _come to piter_ , Mila texts him a couple of days later.

 _busy,_ he texts back.

 _he's come back_ , she replies unnecessarily. Otabek figured out. Also, Yuri posted a photo of Nevsky at sunset which is a dead giveaway, the first update on social media since January. It has 52k likes and 9k comments when Otabek sees it, two hours after it was uploaded. The sole numbers give him a headache. It had no description, just a lonely # ПИТЕР.

 _what do you want me to do_ , he texts, a few minutes later.

_come.._

_fuck no._

Mila only replies two hours later, with a single _please_.

Otabek hates himself for giving in to so little, but maybe that's exactly the reason: Mila always shouts a hundred words per minute. So when she doesn't, it must be bad.

When he sets his mind on going, he skilfully ignores how much money he's about to spend on the first flight tomorrow, and rebooking the flights to Canada; he might as well fly straight there. It's closer from Saint Petersburg and he's meeting coach there, for the North American shows and the usual two-week training with JJ. With a pained sigh, he cancels all the plans for Almaty he's made in the last two days, sends mother a message, and re-packs his suitcase, trying to fish out some clean clothes from the pile in his bedroom. He'll just have to buy what he's missing.

Everything is ready too swiftly; he's had to pack too many times.

The thing, he realises in the evening, when he's ready to go to sleep for too few hours and take the too-long flight at 8 am, is that he needs to actually call Yuri.

 _Now_.

He half-heartedly considers of a shot of vodka, just to take the edge off; even if he had alcohol in the house, he wouldn't let himself.

"Call Yuri," he says at his phone, not trusting his hands; it seems less like an active choice this way.

"Calling: Yuri," Siri replies. Otabek leans back in the armchair and takes the phone in his hand, just as the ringing signal starts, from where it was balanced on his thigh; he switches the speaker off. It seems appropriate. Hearing Yuri's voice echo inside his living room would be too much of – something; he's too restless to find his words.

Yuri picks up after the fifth signal.

"Beka," he says slowly, making a shiver run down Otabek's spine. It's been months, now.

"Yura," Otabek replies in the same manner. He will see Yuri tomorrow. _Tomorrow._

"…what did Mila say to you?" Yuri asks after a pause, breathless and angry. At least there's that, Otabek thinks; Yuri's anger never subsides.

"To come."

"And?" the question comes out sharp, demanding. Otabek wants to punch something.

"I'm landing at ten twenty-five."

A pause, a heartbeat.

"Are you insane?"

"I don't know, are you the one to ask?" Otabek throws back, with a bit too much deliberation than necessary. It doesn't just slip out. He lets himself say it, even though it might hurt. It's been too much, too long.

Yuri says nothing for a long moment, his breath rustling in Otabek's ear, distorted by the static of the phone.

"I will pick you up," he eventually says. Otabek nods to himself. "I moved," Yuri adds.

"Okay then."

"Okay," Yuri repeats and disconnects.

 

Somehow, Otabek ends up passing the flight entertaining a seven-year-old whose mother has two other children to take care of and seems quite overwhelmed by the whole ordeal. Otabek doesn't mind, it's probably the best distraction he could have asked for because the kid refuses to sleep and asks him too many questions. Even though he likes his cousins, it's so different from ninety-five percent of Otabek's life, giving all his attention to this kid, that he takes it in stride. And probably says a lot of strange things. The girl giggles a lot, Otabek smiles at her, and he has no recollection of what he actually says that is so funny. It's all too surreal, as if some alien possessed his body and his mind and left Otabek to silently observe.

Otabek barely remembers how much he hates travelling east: it confuses him far more than travelling west.

When he gets off the plane, still holding the Alina's hand, the terminal clock says it's ten thirty-two; Otabek's mind starts to remember the reality. He can feel headache building up in his temples. He has two large suitcases to collect and drag around, again.

"Once more, thank you so much. I don't know how I would have managed," the mother says as they wait at the luggage belt, waiting for it to start moving.

"It was my pleasure," he assures her, trying to make it sounds as relaxed as it should, but the thought that he'll see Yuri just in a few minutes… And he has no idea what to say to him, or what to do. He isn't really sure why he is here.

 

It's cold. Otabek shivers in his leather jacket as soon as he steps out of the terminal. The air tastes like rain waiting to happen, mixed with petrol.

Yuri is waiting outside, leaning against one of those gigantic concrete columns, staring at his feet, hands in pockets. He is wrapped tightly with a black trench coat, collar turned up, his hair tied in a bun; he's wearing a surgical mask, one of those fancy designer ones, which covers most of his face. Of course. He doesn't want to be recognised; Otabek didn't quite think about that.

"Hey," he says when he stops in front of Yuri, both of his suitcases in tow, like faithful dogs.

Yuri's eyes are so blue, staring at him from above the dark mask. He's not wearing any make-up, Otabek notices upon closer inspection. His eyelashes are like his hair, so fair, almost invisible. It always makes his stare look more penetrating.

"Hey," Yuri replies. Otabek fancies that he can hear something warm in Yuri's voice. "Come on," Yuri adds, peeling himself off the column and grabbing one of Otabek's suitcases. He raises an eyebrow at how heavy it is, even when pulled. "You moving to Piter, or what?"

"I'm leaving next week," Otabek says, unnecessarily. He has to survive somehow. It's an uncomfortable thought and he doesn't want it to be an uncomfortable thought because it's Yuri, and him.

Yuri, and him, and all the time that has passed.

Yuri looks back and squints at him, never slowing down. He's dodging people on the pavement as if he's been practising. (He probably has.) Otabek is lead him to the same old BMW 3 Yuri's been driving ever since he was legal, which looks perfectly boring amongst the hundreds of cars.

"I live up in Kalininsky," Yuri says as he starts the engine. "A bit of a drive."

Otabek nods. He's only vaguely familiar with the city, though he's never really seen much else than hotels, roads leading from hotels to ice rinks, ice rinks, Yuri's old flat, and a handful of tourist attractions. He hasn't been sightseeing since his first Junior Worlds, when mother was still travelling with him.

It starts raining a few minutes along the way. Yuri swears at the traffic and at the heavy rain; it's beautifully familiar. Otabek laughs. He's done that before, laughing at Yuri who can be such a diva sometimes. Could be.

They don't really talk for the hour it takes to drive to what apparently is Yuri's new place.

"That's Murinsky Park," Yuri says as he pulls up into one of the few free spots. It looks boring, none of its many trees and bushes yet green, none of its flowers in bloom. The grass is dull and washed-out, paths dotted with puddles. Across the street, tall block of flats, all in unison grey, spring from between bare trees. It doesn't look much different from anywhere. A park thought – that's great for jogging and some light training, weather permitting, but he doesn't know if Yuri still bothers.

Otabek follows after Yuri, the rain making his hair wet it no time, little beads of drops falling behind his collar.

They have to climb to the fourth floor, keys rattling in one of Yuri's pockets all the way up. The door doesn't have any name written on it, just a number, _16_ , and a peephole. The blue paint is faded, a little scraped at the bottom.

Yuri goes in first, the suitcase jumping over the threshold. Otabek comes in and closes the door behind himself. The flat is a stark contrast to Yuri's old one: the space is basically empty. None of the clutter, none of the old furniture, none of the boxes. The walls have been repainted in white, snow-bright, the wooden floor, worn out and unwaxed, contrasts in its dark tones. There is a fancy leather sofa in the middle of the space, one of those modern ones with uselessly low back, and a little coffee table. That's it. Otabek's steps echo among the walls, a dull afterimage of the headache buzzing in his temples.

"Here," Yuri walks into another room, smaller, which contains a large bed, covers all messy, spilling over to the floor, and a suitcase. There are a few hangers displaying some fancy clothes Yuri's been given on different occasions, all famous brands; Otabek recognises the silk robe Yuri wore the first time they had sex. There's also the kimono Yuri wore at his exhibition, which makes Otabek double-take: he has never seen it afterwards. He's never realised Yuri owned it. 

"Did you just move in?" Otabek asks, setting his luggage by the wall, next to the oil radiator. It's burning hot to touch. It's a superfluous inquiry; Yuri knows how to live out of a suitcase, in the end.

"I'll clean it up later," Yuri ignores his question. He takes the band out of his hair and lets it fall down, just past his chin, all wet and ruffled. He walks out of the room, back to the entrance door, and takes off his shoes and coat. A strand of hair falls into his eye and he pushes it out, one long delicate gesture, as if he was playing Aurora, just waking up, stretching her arm out towards the world.

Otabek almost forgot those little moments, the theatricalness of Yuri's gestures, the subtle grace, which, no matter how much he might try, will always single him out of a crowd in the street.

Yesterday he wondered why Mila said _please_. It was obviously not just being polite, it was more of a pleading. He wandered what Yuri did that made her say it, or what he did not do – maybe both. Now that Yuri is right in front of him, he isn't sure what to keep his eyes on; it's vaguely uncomfortable. He wants to stare right into his eyes, but he's too scared. He wants to run away and stop putting himself into situations where there is no good choice to make, just a bad one and a worse one.

But Yuri stays right in front of him, pale and wet. He looks surprisingly rested, but not relaxed; there is tension Otabek has learned to read to the line of his shoulders. A slight tilt to how he stands; his back must be bothering him, L4 and L5 ever since a bad fall he took a while ago. Pain that was never serious enough for a worry, yet remains ever-present.

He takes a step. Yuri stands still, so he takes another. And another. He stops a mere inch from Yuri's face; he can't even focus on Yuri's eyes from that close up.

"Tell me why you never replied," Otabek demands. He makes it strong and sharp, so it sounds less like begging that it is.

"I needed to get away. From it all," Yuri mutters, not looking him in the eye. Otabek is angry, he's been angry for a while, but he hates seeing Yuri like this. He has to ask, though.

"So, now am I just a part of _it all_?" Yuri doesn’t reply. Otabek growls. "So, the same as what, some novice kids ogling you between practices, or last season's pair of fucking skates."

"I never said that –"

"Well, now in words, but that's how it sounds."

"Otabek," Yuri says, and finally looks up. His cheeks are hollow. His eyes are focused on Otabek with a scary ferocity. "Beka. Why did you come?"

 _Because Mila begged me,_ he cannot say, even if it's true. _Because you're important._

"Does it matter?" he asks in return, closing the tiny gap between their bodies.

"Yes," Yuri breathes; it tickles Otabek's neck, just like he remembers.

"Too bad."

"Beka," Yuri repeats, his hands climbing up Otabek's waist, "can we?..."

So they fuck. It's just like Otabek remembers, only it's not; whenever he opens his eyes, he feels as if he were in one of those white rooms in Matrix, literally, and he feels weightless, almost lightheaded; the feeling of Yuri's hands on his hips and thighs and chest is more than he could have ever asked for. They are cold, tips of Yuri's fingers, and his soft touches seem reluctant like little snowflakes, disappearing too quickly. Yuri seems hungry, too, for kisses and touches, and impatient to give them out. Otabek loves it. He might love Yuri, too. But right now, he wouldn't trust himself, now he loves the whole universe; it's been too long.

When they're warm and sated, they stay under the crumpled sheets which Yuri, predictably, did not clean up, and will not. Otabek wraps his arm around Yuri's back, resting it low and tracing the bones carefully.

They say nothing for what feels like hours; it really might be hours. The sky has cleared and yellows sunshine sneaks into the room, making it look even more unreal. The end of the ray tickles Otabek's ankle, warmer than expected, like a little flame.

Sometime in between, Yuri fell asleep. Otabek can finally stare at him, which he does: it's the first time he sees Yuri's body clear of bruises in various colours, and of scrapes and sores. Only the silk-like patterns of scars glisten in the low light. He's lost weight, a lot of it, which is absurd, given that he was already skinny; when Yuri shifts to his side, Otabek can easily count his ribs and vertebrae, skin stretched over them, parchment-white.

He can't quite be sure if Yuri has been starving himself on purpose, or by accident. But that's one thing he can do, at least. One easy decision, while he avoids all the others.

 

When Yuri wakes up and tiptoes out of the bed, the sunlight has disappeared again but it's still far too early for sunset; yet the room is grey wish shade. Otabek is lounging on the sofa, drinking tea. There is a plate sat on the coffee table, with some snacks Otabek didn't manage to eat on his way. It has to do. There's nothing but tea and coffee in this apartment.

"You look like death," he observes; he would pick Yuri up and put his on a scale if he was not afraid of the number it would show. "Either you eat, or I will personally drag you to a hospital."

Yuri shrugs. As he does, Otabek stares at his arms and shoulders and imagines the sound of his bones rubbing together, low and metallic. He knows it's only in his head, but he can't stop himself. Yuri gives him a long, calculating look, and then stares at his feet for a moment, before making his way towards the sofa and leaning into Otabek's twisted-up form.

"It's not like that," he says, accepting the plate.

"Then tell me how it is," Otabek replies instantly, as is if he rehearsed it. It sounds mean, and harsh, but he really wants an answer. He's long done with guessing, with imagining. See how much it was good for.  

Yuri doesn't tell him, and doesn't say anything as he eats. In the meantime, Otabek fishes the phone out of the pockets of his coat, hung up on the sofa, and texts Mila, _I'm an Yuri's, making him eat dinner. You could have said something._

 _it's not even that_ , a reply comes instantly, and then, _thanks,_ and a string of hearts.

This time, Otabek wants answers. He wants to know what is that Mila means, what is that Yuri does not say. He wants to hear words, explanations; even if it's no apologies which he thinks he deserves; some apologies, he's ready to say himself. But he will let Yuri do it slowly. He will give Yuri time, now that they are confined to this small, uncomfortable space, now, that there is nowhere to run to. For neither of them.

 

But Yuri doesn't say much. He doesn't do much, either. For the first three days, Otabek observes, and lets the days unfold. Yuri wakes up early and scrolls through the internet for too long, laid on his stomach, legs dangling in the air. His feet are always cold. He fixes himself coffee and makes Otabek tea, and eats what Otabek gives him. He doesn't go out much, he doesn't exercise. Doesn't even stretch. He just sits there, on the lonely sofa, sometimes with his phone in hands, sometimes with a book he doesn't seem to pay too much attention to. It still surprises Otabek because he's never seen Yuri, who quit school at sixteen, read an actual novel. He picks it up when Yuri is in the bathroom: it's a Russian science fiction author he's never heard of.

Otabek wedges himself into the routine, into the foreign space. The apartment is smaller than the old one but feels much bigger: its hollow echo is hard to get used to; at least when the window is open, the inevitable sound of traffic from Prospekt Lunacharskogo sneaks into the room. He spends most of the days waiting, observing, hoping, and pretending not to be doing any of these things. He goes out to get groceries when Yuri refuses to, and comes back to see Yuri crouched in the doorway, playing with what is presumably neighbour's cat. Yuri is smiling. Otabek freezes at the last step, staring across the corridor. He hasn't seen that in so long.

 

Yuri does say a few things, tough, at random moments, which Otabek isn't sure what to think of, or how to respond to, like _I thought about getting a cat for a while, after Potya, but I couldn't_ or _Mila had the key to the old flat, I think she kept some of my things before I could throw them away_ or _it's actually that I went to see my first skating teacher, and there were all those kids_. The context doesn't help much, when Otabek can figure it out; it's as if those scenes existed in Yuri's mind like that, floating, singular memories, barely making sense.

Otabek nods his way through some of those, which seems to be enough for Yuri.

Yuri takes his meds, every day on the clock, so at least there's that.

But they still haven't talked.

_Wasn't all that supposed to make you happier_ , Otabek asks silently; it's already Wednesday evening. His flight leaves on Sunday at ten to seven in the morning. The shrinking stretch of hours feels heavy and daunting because he came here for a reason, sacrificing what might not be a lot of time but what is _all_ his time; all of the year that Otabek has solely to himself, between places, between obligations, between dreams.

And it's not restful. He spends the nights holding Yuri, his hand wrapped around the stick-thin arms, the delicate wrists, tracing Yuri's scars, and he sleeps little as Yuri breathes steadily under his touch.

 

Thursday morning, Yuri is missing from the bed when Otabek wakes up, but there is a noise of running water coming from the bathroom. Shower. He takes a few minutes to get out of bed; when he joins in, Yuri is already dressed in black slacks, staring at his reflection in the mirror, the make-up bag sitting in the sink.

Otabek leans against the doorframe, his eyes meting the reflected-Yuri's for a second, before Yuri looks down and starts to search for something which turns out to be fluid, in a colour just as pale as Yuri's skin.

"Have you read it?" Yuri asks, just as he moves on to applying mascara, hiding his cold stare behind a curtain of newly-brown eyelashes.

Otabek answers almost too quickly.

"No."

"I didn't think you would."

"Really," Otabek wonders, and thinks a few sentences beyond that. "My mother did."

He's not sure why he mentions it, if it's supposed to mean something beyond the literal words. Yuri doesn't say anything. Otabek shrugs and squeezes past Yuri to get into the shower.

By the time he's finished, Yuri is all dolled up, wearing one of those strange-shaped fancy outfits that all look the same to Otabek. The make-up makes him look quite refreshed, the shadows from under his eyes gone, and the tiniest touch of rouge to his cheeks livening his face up.

"So?" Otabek asks, sliding onto the chair; there is a glass of tea waiting for him, black and sweet, just as he likes it.

"I'm doing an interview today. For TV," Yuri explains, glaring into the bag in his hands. "I didn't say anything," he adds, as if that was supposed to explain everything to Otabek.

"Anything?" Otabek echoes. He wants to wrap his hands around the glass but it's too hot. He wants the taste on his tongue.

"I didn't tell them about, you know, my meds, or – any of that."

Otabek hums in surprise; he assumed Yuri said that, too, among all the other words.

"I was scared," Yuri continues, still not looking at Otabek. "We talked, the interview… that was a month and a half ago. Since then," he stops again; it's infuriating and absolutely understandable. Yuri _doesn't know_ how to do these things. He's learning. He's young.

None of those are good excuses.

"So I said okay. To the interview. I don’t think I will do more, but…" he pauses again. Whatever he was looking for must be accounted for, because he zips up the bag clutches it tightly. "I will be back around five. The spare keys are in bathroom cabinet."

"Wait," Otabek says as Yuri turns to leave, he stands up and quickly closes the distance between Yuri and him. He's still wearing nothing but boxers; it's a bit ridiculous.

There was something he wanted to say but it doesn't come out. So instead, he gives Yuri a quick kiss. Yuri tenses under his touch, and stands motionless until Otabek is perched back on the chair, then nods stiffly. Otabek exhales.

And then Yuri's gone.

 

Otabek watches the interview on live TV on his laptop, having hacked a neighbour's wifi because Yuri doesn't seem to have one, and if he does, it's too well-hidden among a dozen of nonsensical network names.

It is like watching a stranger, really. Otabek doesn't make himself think anything more of it. He's never heard Yuri speak like this. He's never really heard Yuri speak that much, even though, in the end, he doesn't say a lot. The interviewer fills in a lot of gaps, and there are little breaks for some footages illustrating what they're talking about, Yuri jumping a quad-triple, Yuri on a podium, Yuri in a press photo, smiling.

Yuri's voice sounds strange, and it's probably because it seems mechanical, dehumanized, like all broadcasted voices do to Otabek. Yuri doesn't really smile. He nods a lot, and lets his fingers tap against his knees.

Nothing is said that Otabek hasn't known: it's just all said out loud, summed up, ordered chronologically, explained to whoever was not intimately familiar with Yuri's reality. Otabek feels like a surgeon who is being reminded of an old case he worked on; all the details come back, like muscle memory, and fit it together.

 _fuck_ , he types to Mila; he's the only person who will understand what he means.

The interview ends before eleven. Otabek is not sure why Yuri won't be back for a few more hours but he cannot bring himself to ask over a text. He thinks about taking his skates and stopping by to see Mila, or maybe just visit a regular rink, to clear his head. The skates are still buried deep in the bigger suitcase, under a soft cushion of random costumes he picked for the shows. Yuri's skates are nowhere in the flat.

Otabek doesn't dare to risk it. He leaves in his running shoes instead.

 

When he's back, Yuri's resting on top of the bed, draped with that absurd black robe, looking like he's about to fall asleep. It's five thirty in the afternoon and the sun is sneaking its bright rays into the room. The room has grown cold; yesterday must have been the last day when the heating was on. Yuri, in his half-undressed state, doesn't seem to care, though Otabek can see the faint traces of his veins under the milky skin. That's how Yuri's body reacts to cold and immobility, as if he was really, slowly, turning into a statue of marble.

Otabek wants to see him smile, desperately. Or smirk. Or at least shout. Or – something, even to see him run, to see him gesturing animatedly. But Yuri doesn't really move, only his eyes follow Otabek as he crosses the room to get a clean set of clothes and as he sheds the sweat-drenches workout outfit, and then as he walks out of the room to take a shower.

Yuri is still in the same place, in the very same position, when Otabek comes back, only his phone is resting on top of the pillow, screen blinking but still dispassionately ignored.

"I thought that was supposed to make you happier," Otabek finally says out loud, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed. He's barefoot; the floor is freezing. "All that. Wasn't that the point?"

"You don't know fuck."

"Probably," Otabek agrees because it's true: of course it's silly, to think about it that way, but if Yuri was unhappy before and is still unhappy now, what was the point in quitting? Wouldn't it make more sense to stay, or to come back? He'd still have – something, that way. Not like this. Not a flat of empty rooms and days of listless hours. Yuri laughed the last time the spoke before Europeans.

And now – now.

"So you would talk about your mental health on national television, but not to me."

"Beka," Yuri still doesn't meet Otabek's eyes. He's staring out of the window. "Can we not do this now?"

"Can we _ever_ do this?"

"I didn't ask you to come," Yuri deflects. Otabek takes a deep breath, calming himself, so that he doesn't do or say something he will regret later.

"No, only people who care about you did instead, because you scare them."

"I didn't ask –"

"Stop with this," Otabek cuts in, sharply. "I know, you didn't ask, you didn't want anything, you will just be here doing your own idiotic thing. And of course you didn't spare a thought to whoever might, for some unexplainable reason, give a fuck about you. How did you think it felt seeing you disappear? For someone who is feeling bad enough to have been taking meds for months? How was I supposed to know you were not gone to kill yourself? Or to hurt yourself? Because you excel at that, really. I know we've never really talked and fine, it worked fine, until it's didn't. Unless this is how you want things, is it?"

"Beka, listen –"

"Is it more complicated than you think I'm capable of understanding? Maybe you are making it like that at your own wish? I sent you a hundred messages. Would it hurt to reply, one fucking time? Was it –"

"Beka," the way Yuri says his name, flat, loud. Otabek doesn’t know how long he can take this. "I'm tired."

Yuri's eyes are closed. Otabek wants to grab his shoulders and shake him awake, so that they can talk, so that he can look into Yuri's eyes, so that they can kiss; none if it happens, of course.

"Could you maybe try to take advantage of the fact that I came to you, Yuri? You know I came because I fucking care. Or did I really come here for – this, and nothing else? I know," he adds, before Yuri can cut it, "you didn't ask, you didn't ask. Of course you didn't ask."

"I thought you could be that one person who wouldn't question me."

"Well, I'm not, it seems," Otabek says. Maybe it's too harsh. He's not going to lie. But. "Maybe I could have been."

Yuri doesn't reply to that, and Otabek can't bring himself to say anything more, when Yuri is not actually willing to talk, or at least to really listen what Otabek is trying to explain. He sits there until his legs turn numb, and then for some time. Yuri doesn't fall asleep; Otabek knows the patterns of his breath too well. But he doesn't do anything either.

"I'm going out," Otabek finally decides, unfolding his legs and letting them rest before he can take steps. He needs to breathe, to remind himself of the world still turning outside of this claustrophobic space. Yuri doesn't reply but he opens his eyes and, just like before, follows Otabek's movements across the room. Otabek pockets the spare keys as he walks out, closing the door quietly. There are many places in Piter he'd rather be right now.

 

He's back in two hours. Staying out the whole night is tempting, it always is, and it's childish. The whole point of coming was to be there for Yuri, Otabek reminds himself on the bus. The old lady gives him an annoyed look but he isn't sure what he did to earn it. He's restless.

Yuri is still in bed, phone in his hands, typing something quickly. There's an empty glass on the floor, so at least he moved.

"Sorry," Otabek says, sneaking under the covers.

"Sure," Yuri echoes, not looking away from the screen.

 

They sleep in. It's almost eleven when Otabek finally drags himself out of bed; Yuri's already dressed, making coffee in the kitchen. It's a lovely day, finally: the world outside finally starts to soak in the first real bits of spring. Otabek rolls his eyes when he sees Yuri looking at his coffee with more emotion than he has expressed during the whole of last week.

"We still have the eggs," he says, a little pointlessly, and scrambles them over toast; those are the two things they still have. Grocery shopping today. Yuri says nothing when Otabek puts a full plate in front of him. He easts slowly and when he's done, he makes them both a second round of coffee.

Just as he places the mugs on the table, there is suddenly banging at the door. Otabek waits, it's not his place to answer. It takes Yuri a couple of minutes to drag himself to open, probably only because the loud knocking doesn't cease; his joints seem stiff, like he hasn't stretched for too long.

"Is this really how I have to find out?" a familiar voice greets Yuri, who instantly tenses, it's probably the last person he wants to see now. Otabek decides to stay quiet, observing the scene unfold from the vantage point of the kitchen table, out of the corner of his eye. Viktor doesn't know he is here, obviously; he probably won't pay enough attention to notice, not with Yuri, as he is, right in front of him.

"Fuck _off_. We haven't spoken in years –"

"After you punched me in the face and slammed the door at me," Viktor hisses, leaning into the doorway, trying to make his way inside. Only that Yuri is not a kid anymore, even if still shorter and much skinnier.

"See if I do it again then."

Yuri does try to close the door in the man's face, but Viktor's shoe is in the way. They both look down and then up, staring at each other's faces, frozen in place. Viktor hasn't changed, Otabek notices, he never does. It doesn't look like he's aged a day. Still the same arrogant smirk, the same carefully groomed hair, the same sharp eyes. His stare is heavy.

"Did you fucking fly here from Japan for – this?"

"Yes."

The simple answers catches Yuri unawares; there's the familiar tension back in his shoulders. He must have expected something ridiculous, like usually, maybe a half lie. _I stopped on my way to see Chris_ , or _I had business in town_.

"Well, then you just fucking wasted your time," Yuri growls, resuming to push Viktor out of the doorway. It's a tough task: his legs seem shaky. Maybe it's a headache brewing.

"Yuri," Viktor says again; there is something to his voice that makes Yuri stop. It sounds almost like pleading. Even a few months ago Yuri would call him pathetic to his face and just shut the door, but now, he waits. The brief silence is uncomfortable. "Call me," he slides a folded piece of paper into Yuri's jeans pocket, turns around, and disappears down the shadowy hallway.

Yuri slams the door shut and storms to the bedroom, closing that door, too. Otabek is left in the kitchen with the two mugs of steaming coffee. He doesn't really know what to think. What the hell was that.

Only to confuse him further, half an hour later he gets a message from Yuuri, which says, _if you see Viktor, please keep an eye on him_. But Viktor is not there. Otabek really doubts that Yuri will wish to have anything to do with the man, judging by his reaction.

 _If I see him_ , he texts back.

Otabek picks the paper up later, when Yuri's in the shower, and studies it briefly. Scribbled on the paper is an address in Piter, with door number and security code, and a crisp _V_.

 

Yuri never says anything about Viktor; Otabek doesn't find out if the offer was taken up on or not, although he's about certain he knows the answer. But maybe there as something to it – something Otabek cannot understand, really, because it didn't seem like anything but argument to him. Yet the next morning, Yuri wakes up early, and the proceeds to bother Otabek until he's up, too.

"Let's do something," he says, failing to clarify any further.

Otabek likes to pretend that means something, even if it might not; he plays along with it. Even if it's another one of those moments when they pretend they don't need to talk. They go out and get breakfast in a little café, and then go to the park. The weather is just as nice as yesterday, the city warming up quickly. Otabek lets Yuri take him to a couple of shops and buy him things; he doesn't question Yuri's financial situation when the clothes cost more than what he'd be willing pay. They get lunch, go for a ride through the pretty areas of the city, and they casually do not get anywhere near the rink. They kiss a few times, in the car, when no one can see them, as if they were shy teenagers. Yuri's lips are dry and taste sweet.

Otabek lets it be like that.

 

Sometime around midnight, the suitcases are finally re-packed and ready. The flight is first thing in the morning, intercontinental, so he has to be at the airport around four am. Which means getting up at three. He hopes he can sleep on the plane. There are no direct flights to Montreal but at least changing in Warsaw makes the second flight long and undisturbed.

Yuri has been sitting on the bed, watching Otabek's ever move like a hawk. He's wearing an oversize sweater, sliding down his shoulders, which barely keeps him warm. It's mint-green. One of the shirts he picked out for Otabek is in the exact same colour. It might be a coincidence.

There is no point in sleeping.

"Yuri," he mutters, climbing up on the bed. He takes Yuri's hands in his, and then kisses him, stronger, more passionately than earlier in the day, within the intimacy of the empty flat. It's almost like their accelerated heartbeats echo in the room along with their breathing, too.

Otabek has no idea when he will see Yuri again. The thought is sudden and agonizing; his fingers tighten their grip automatically, as if he could just keep Yuri if he tried, as if it was that simple to not let him go.

Yuri kisses back, his tongue slipping into Otabek's mouth. Otabek gives in and reciprocates, and then kisses Yuri's lower lip, and then his earlobe, letting his hands travel down Yuri's nape, sliding under the sweater, tracing the sharp hipbones, and then lower, down to his thighs – just then, at the softest touch, Yuri pulls back, a short, jarred movement, and stares at Otabek with this wild, confused stare, eyes wide, glistening.  

 _Oh god, what have I done wrong_?

Otabek moves back, giving Yuri more space. Did he say no? He kissed back. That doesn't mean no, does it?

Yuri still stares. It's uncomfortable. It doesn't really – Otabek is not sure.

"Should I go?" he asks, ready to get off the bed and dress himself and leave in less than a minute but Yuri, just lightly, shakes his head for now.

"It's not…" Yuri trails, his voice so tiny that Otabek barely makes out the words. "It's me."

"Yuri, no," Otabek's voice is surer than he feels. "I will go."

"Beka," Yuri calls, louder this time, and stretches his hand out. It's shaking slightly. Otabek takes it and shifts closer, but still a few inches from Yuri. What if Yuri is not okay, what if he can't consent? Why didn't Otabek think about it a few days ago? "It's fine," Yuri says, as if he was reading Otabek's mind. "I love when you touch me."

Otabek waits, unprepared. It might be some kind of an invitation, but he cannot bring himself to – Yuri just seems out of it. Curled into himself, looking away from Otabek.

Oh. He's crying, Otabek realizes.

He hasn't seen Yuri cry since the final in Barcelona, where emotions got the best of him, but there, he cried with exhaustion, with elation, with what was too much for a teenager like him to comprehend and to fit into his little heart.

"Yuri," he tries, but the only reaction is a hand wrapping itself tighter around Otabek's wrist. "Yura, Yura. Hey," he whispers. Yuri is not listening. He's sitting, head down, so that Otabek can barely see it from behind Yuri's messy hair.

"I'm good at skating," Yuri whispers, and Otabek leans in to catch his choked words. "I am the best. Why does it have to mean I can't quit, if I want to? Why does everyone have to judge me? Does my talent mean I have to be its prisoner? Do you know how it feels to be a prisoner to your body? To the only love you've ever had? It's destructive. You ruin yourself," he says, his fingers lazily tracing the scar on his knee; then he shrugs quickly, as if to relieve the tension from his back. Of course. "But then you do it gloriously, it's beautiful, and it doesn't matter. None of it matters. I tried so hard. I tried so fucking hard, you can't even imagine, you can't – what it took. When grandpa died. When the knee happened, when everyone left. When everyone looked at me and said, he's going to do it, he's going to be the best, and never gave me anything more, and I did do it, I did it on my own, and I never asked for anything. I gave the ice all I had until I had nothing more to give. Until I was nothing more. And now I am nothing more, and I can't go back. There's all these things I don't want to hear."

"…did I say those things?"

Yuri doesn't reply and Otabek is scared to push, even though he needs to know, he must know, because if he's like that to Yuri, if he's been like that – but what else could he have been? How else could he have acted?

And then Yuri, out of nowhere, folds into himself even more, falling to his side, back to Otabek, and sobs, quick, choking sobs, and it's Otabek's turn to freeze in place, like the biggest idiot, completely stunned. He's seen Yuri scream in pain when he fell, back at the Olympics, he's seen him at his grandfather's funeral. He's seen him when Potya had to be put down.

But he has never seen Yuri so obviously in pain.

"Yura," he tires, but it does nothing, so he tentatively slides his hands up to Yuri's shoulder. Yuri doesn't seem to notice. "Yura, talk to me," he tries more. It's a silly request. Yuri just said more than he did in months, and Otabek feels like he will need to repeat those words over and over before he can grasp what Yuri really meant and what it meant to Yuri –

but Yuri's hand grabs Otabek's and pulls him lower, so that he's half-wrapped around Yuri. Otabek's thoughts stop immediately.

They stay like that, both uncomfortable, until Yuri's breathing slowly relaxes, even though he doesn't stop to cry, and it takes time, it takes long and stretches excruciatingly over half an hour and another. The kitchen clock announces 2 am, and Yuri's still sobbing in Otabek's arms, but a few minutes later the crying subsides, and Yuri seem to slip into a lightest of sleep. The rims of his eyes are red, his mouth half-open, lips dry as always.

Otabek can't let himself fall asleep, it's less than an hour before he has to leave.

 _Leave_.

Can he even leave Yuri like this? He shouldn't. Yuri will hate him if he tells anyone about this but Otabek thinks, this one time, he cannot put Yuri's feelings first, in case Yuri – in case he does something stupid. Because Otabek can't stay. He wishes he could, he wishes things were simpler, he wishes it wasn't the last night, half a night. He wishes everything was at his disposal. But he's already changed the flights to come here, and he couldn't afford to change his plans again. But it's not just money; it's the whole schedule he's worked on for weeks, months, all the people it involves, all the commitments. It's his life, it's his career, it's his _everything_ and he wishes he could wholeheartedly say that he'd give it all up for Yuri but. He can't.

And even if he did, Yuri would hate him for it.

So he savours the warmth of Yuri's body next to his, and texts both Mila and Viktor, ignoring the little voice in his head that whispers _I hate you_ , in a voice that's too familiar, and hopes that Yuri will understand. One day.

Twenty to three, he sneaks out of the bed to take a shower and make himself feel like a human being. He makes sure to shave himself properly, because it makes his already tired face look a bit more appealing; then he puts on his clothes, waiting on hanger at the back of the doors.

When he goes back to the bedroom, Yuri is not there.

Otabek's heart skips. He runs the few steps into the kitchen, and Yuri is not there either; there are no more corners to the flat, so he runs out of the door, barely remembering to take the keys, and down to for ground floor. Yuri is nowhere to be seen; there's only an old man making his way up, exhausted from a night shift. Yuri's car is still there. Yuri is not.

Otabek knows trying to look for anyone in this city, even in the maze of the closest neighbourhood, is a futile idea. Especially someone who doesn't want to be found.

Just to be thorough, he takes the elevator back to Yuri's floor and then runs up the stairs to the top; he doesn't find Yuri, of course. He stands there for a moment, out of breath, and starts to walk down. It's already ten past three, he should be in a taxi by now. The company tried to call him three times. He ignores it and goes to the contact list.

Mila answers after two signals, so she must have gotten his message earlier.

"He's gone," he breathes. Two more floors.

"What?"

"I was in the shower, and he left, and he's not here. I should leave now, but I can't –"

"I'm coming right now," Mila says, rustling in the background. "I'll call whoever need to know."

"Viktor's in town," Otabek tells her, almost at the door. It's slightly ajar, but Otabek remembers he hasn't really closed it, so it's not anything else. "Wait –" he pauses, looking around, "there's a note at the table. And his jacket's not here."

"Read," Mila orders. Otabek feels so bad for dumping all his Yuri-issues on her, and actually more than that. She's never seem to mind but it's not… this are not easy things.

"It says, _I'm fine. Don't be late for your plane._ And then," he pauses, " _thanks, Beka._ "

"I'll be there in fifteen. Can you still make it to the flight then?"

Otabek nods and doesn't even realize it means nothing over the phone. But he makes it to the flight: Mila comes just as quickly as she promised, which can be probably attributed to her madman driving skills and the lack of traffic in the dead of the night. Otabek is too numb to think too much about anything. He lets her talk when she comes, and lets her help him pack the suitcases into the taxi, and lets her assure him she will wait there for Yuri to come back, and that she'll contact Viktor.

 

He doesn't actually remember much of the flight. The exhaustion is heavy in his limbs but he's too restless to sleep. He refuses any of the food they offer, and snaps at the flight attendant who asks him if he is okay; he apologizes immediately.

"Family trouble. And I cannot be there for them," he lies, because it sounds like a viable excuse, and is close enough. At least the attendant's face softens a little.

Getting out of the plane in Montreal, all stiff and achy, eyes stinging from too much of the dry air, he realizes that JJ is picking him up. They spoke about it about a week ago. Otabek just… well, it slipped his mind.

For a moment he considers taking his time at leaving, and pretending that he was not on the flight, that there was one issue or another, and instead of going to JJ's place, finding a hotel room where he can be absolutely alone. Fuck. He should have thought about it earlier. Even in his head, it sounds too cowardly.

So he goes out and meets JJ, who promptly tells him he looks like shit.

"Fucking _don't_ ," he snaps. JJ gives him a long look. He doesn't exactly know how to hide that it hurt him. Is this what Otabek is going to do now, to all the people he meets? He needs to calm down. He needs to think.

Breathe.

"Sorry. I've –"

"It's Yuri, isn't it? I heard about the interview."

"…I'm coming from Piter."

"I thought Warsaw wasn’t the usual change you'd take," JJ nods, and. It's that easy. They've been almost-friends for so long now. At least that's familiar. Montreal is familiar, like travelling back in time, every time, it changes so little. "You told me you weren't together, once."

"That was a long time ago," Otabek frowns, trying to recall the exact conversation. It probably was before he and Yuri started…

He can feel tears starting to fill his eyes. Oh the fuck. Is he going to do this now, too? He can be dramatic, sure. But nothing has happened. Nothing beyond what they've been living for years. Yuri hasn't hurt him an any new way. Otabek hasn't hurt Yuri in any new way. They just – were, and then they weren't anymore.

That doesn’t help. He can't stop himself. They get into JJ's car and Otabek looks away, tilting his head, and lets the tears fall. JJ does nothing besides sparing Otabek a few glances, but he has to focus on driving, so it's just a brief seconds. He says nothing. Otabek lets himself to the radio and plays the terrible music entirely too loudly, which suits him just fine.

It takes him a few minutes to realize.

"We're not driving to yours?"

"Of course not."

They're driving to the rink. JJ is a figure skater too, in the end. There are some things that all of them understand.

Skates tight on his feet, Otabek steps onto the ice, tensing up in elated anticipation. He starts by making slow laps, lazy crossovers, feeling the ice, tasting the freezing air. It's good. He can do this. He lets his mind wander, little by little, calmer with each stroke, with each twizzle, with each turn. He doesn't want to be yet another person to want something from Yuri, he realises. If that's how Yuri feels. Even if it hurts, he's willing to step back and wait. He's willing to give up. If that's what Yuri needs. Because Otabek knows he won't be able to stop skating: he can't deny it. It's in his bones, joints, muscles, in his blood. In every cell of his body. It's in his movements, in his head. In the way he thinks and dreams. He thoughts that’s what they shared, and that's why it worked, and it hurts so much to see how wrong he's been, all this time.

Otabek has never been tired with skating. Tired because of it, of course, but not with it. He's never felt like Yuri does. Maybe he understands nothing.

But at least he has this.

The ice belongs to him.

 

Days fly quickly and smoothly, in Canada. Otabek chooses music and meets up witch coach and choreographer for his free program. Viktor, long ago, promised to have a short for him when they see each other, and he did send Otabek a confirmation email, extremely brief. They're busy in Japan, Otabek can see from their social media. More so in off-season, those who do not compete.

Otabek doesn't exactly speak about Yuri with anyone. _You're right_ , Otabek replied to one of Mila's messages, _you're not his keeper._ That's as far as it goes.

 

 _I will retire after the Olympics_ , she texts him, out of blue. It's in just 2022, less than two years. They are the same age.

"When will you retire?" Otabek asks JJ during their lunch break, later that day.

"After the Olympics, probably," JJ shrugs. He's a year younger than Otabek. "I want to marry Isa, and not be spread between places. I've already been waiting for too long. What brings this on?"

"I never thought about it," Otabek says truthfully; they're always whispers, between the older skaters, little words here and there. Otabek never really participated. It won't get easier, the young kids are getting crazier and crazier; and their generation thought they were over the top already.

 

Soon, it's May and Canada has turned into a pleasant enough place, spring has settled in the parks and it's finally the time when they have to remember to take the warmer clothes to the rink, since a t-shirt is enough to back in the sun. The shows will start in a week and Otabek feels ready.

Yuri calls him in the evening of the day when Otabek finally lands a quad loop. He's been doing just fine with a toe, sal, and lutz, but this season he wants to try something more. He's too old and too young, at the same time, to let himself remain stagnant. There might be no one with five quads in the field after Yuri's left, but a few of the kids already have three at seventeen.

He doesn't tell Yuri anything about the jump, even though he's still high on adrenaline. It felt so great: sure he fell a few times, and touched down a couple more, but he landed he damn loop, and now he knows he can do it, so he will. This is how it works.

"I'm sorry," Yuri says. Otabek lets him talk. "I didn't mean to scare you. I was just – I couldn’t really do it. You didn't deserve me to treat you like that."

Yuri says other apologies, too, in so few words, and none of them are the ones Otabek is waiting for, but he accepts them anyway.

 _What do you want from me_ , he wants to ask. But it feels like too much of a question. The pressure on Yuri, to answer, and on Otabek, to acknowledge the answer, seems like too much. Maybe another time. Maybe when they're both something more than they are now.

"Yuri, are you okay?" Otabek asks instead. It's a loaded question, too.

"I will be," Yuri replies. Otabek wishes he never asked, but accepts the answer.

"What did you do today?"

There. That is a small question, and a big answer.

"I went to a studio. Danced."

That's more than Otabek expected. It makes him happy. Because – year ago, getting to know each other better, he realised that Yuri knew nothing but skating. He literally had no hobbies, no interests, he went through individual schooling as quickly as possible without any engagement, and quit as early as possible, too. He had no history to his name but the string of titles and medals listed on his Wikipedia page. The only thing he was able to care about was his cat. Otabek knew all that. And he saw so many things that Yuri treated like a tool, dance being one of them.

He doesn't dare asking if Yuri saw Lilia. The answer is pretty obvious.

 

The call is the only one. If Yuri did it to clean his conscience, that's fine. Otabek imagines Yuri dancing, sometimes, when he's sitting in a particularly bothersome stretch, or when he's practising some tano jumps he knows he will never put in a program, or when he tapes the sore arches of his feet.

There are a few shows in Canada, with JJ and some of the retired skaters, Chen and Osmond and Buttle. They go from Montreal to Toronto and then fly to Los Angeles, Denver, Chicago, Atlanta, and finally New York. Otabek practices his free skate but doesn't debut it yet; that he's keeping for Japan. It's coming together nicely. He's not entirely happy with how it feels, but it's getting easier and easier as he can concentrate less on the actual technical moves and more on the interpretation.

He goes easy on loops as learning a new quad always puts his triple out of balance for a little while, until he gets them both into his muscle memory, separate and perfect.

That is, he goes easy on loops until he figures out what has been missing.

"I want to change the layout," he tells coach who only sighs, and nods, half-resigned.

"You were pretty reluctant with it the last few weeks."

"After the choero sequence, I will do triple loop-triple loop instead of the lutz-toe, and then swap the flip for the lutz. The base value goes up. "

"By a fraction. You want to do loop-loop? No men do that combination."

"One did," Otabek says. It doesn't need any more explanation.

Coach acquiesces. Learning the loop-loop takes Otabek less time than it should, even though it's not easy, but when Otabek puts his mind to something, he does it.

It will be obvious to those who know what to look for, what he means by putting the combination in his program.

 

"Wow," Viktor says when Otabek finished running through the free skate. He's smiling. Otabek arrived to Japan straight from New York, which is not a connection he wants to fly ever again. He refused rest upon arrival; he already lost a day on-board the airplanes and sliding between time zones. "You don't do things by halves, do you."

 _Yuri will probably punch me when he sees it_ , Otabek wants to say, but he doesn't know where Yuri and Viktor stand these days, is anything has changed, if Yuri ever called the number scribbled on the scrap of paper. He isn't planning on asking.

"Can't wait to see the audience's reaction to this," Viktor nods to himself, "and to the short program. Let me show you now. Axel, lutz, and sal. We might swap it for loop later in the season, if you feel confident enough for the risk."

Viktor's show feels far more familiar than any Otabek has been to by now. All the skaters and hand-picked. It's _Viktor and Friends_ , in the end; the style of the choreo is familiar and rather sublime. There is eight of them, Viktor and Yuuri, Otabek, Phichit, Emil, Georgi, Lee, and Kenjirou. Chris is missing, recovering from an overdue foot surgery.

For a week, they stay in Fukuoka like one big family. Viktor and Yuuri seem in heaven, running between places, skating, chatting; there is a constant buzz to the apartment. It reminds Otabek of Yutopia which makes sense. They like to invite literally everyone, so Otabek meets the lady who does the flower arrangements and the representative of company providing snacks. One evening he comes back from a run to what looks like a party, but turns out to be a test of some special lights Viktor's been fawning about.

All of Yuuri's family and half of Hasetsu come to the show. When Otabek jumps the combination, the triplets scream in voices so high that it makes Otabek flinch. He grins at them when he skates past. Yuri texts him a little bit later, for the first time in a while. Otabek doesn't let himself think too much about it. He has decided to let Yuri go, if that's what it takes. He doesn't need his willpower tested more than it already has been.

 _Why did you do it?_ and then, _Yuuko sent me the video._

 _You know why_ , Otabek replies. 

Yuri says nothing to that.

 

After Fukuoka, which only has elite three shows, there is _Fantasy On Ice_ which takes them all to Niigata, Nagoya, Kobe, Sendai, Saitama, and finally Aomori. The schedule is tight but at least the choreography stays the same. Viktor doesn't skate in any of them, but Yuuri does. He seems to skate in all of the shows that take place in Japan, well over forty this off-season.

"I feel like this is something I can do to give thanks to my country for supporting me throughout my career," he explains when Otabek asks because it's not so common for skaters to do so many shows, especially after they've retired. "It's a bit of time I have to manage myself, too, and to let Viktor do his things. He goes to Russia, or Paris. Visiting some friends I don't know. Sometimes he stays in Hasetsu with the family, too. It took us a while to figure it out, but we need those few days here and there for ourselves. It works."

One morning before Saitama show, Otabek practices his short program; whenever he's not perfect, Yuuri comes in, intimately familiar with Viktor's whole creative process. Then Otabek runs though some of the elements from free.

Yuuri smiles, too, at the triple loop combination, and then promptly launches himself into one.

Otabek might be staring; Yuuri laughs at him shamelessly.

"I watched Yuuko doing it for years and never tried. And then when Yurio did it, I had to try, too. He has never seen it. Is there something special you want to say?"

"I don't think that's how it works," Otabek frowns.

"But that's exactly how it works," Yuuri smiles, skates off, and does a quad flip. He wobbles on the landing, and his free leg's toepick almost catches the ice, but he doesn't fall. "Remember when I did it the first time? It worked."

"But that's not –" Otabek pauses. He would blush, maybe, if he wasn't thinking so hard. "I don't want to say what you wanted to say."

"Of course not. And he will know."

It seems that the lack of Chris in the team doesn't mean he's deprived from the all-knowing comments which he appreciates more than he'd like to admit.

("But to be more serious," Yuuri says later, over dinner, when everyone was exhausted enough to leave them two alone with their impossible stamina, hunched over the restaurant table and poking at their respective meals. "I was so proud of Yuri talking about his mental health in public. You know, I've never done that. Not explicitly. I don't think I could. And Viktor… he's another story. Even if he wanted to speak, I don't think he could be understood."

Otabek wants to know what that means but he doesn't ask. Instead, he asks about Yuri.

"We asked him to move in with us, once. When his grandpa died. That was so many years ago, wasn't it? He wouldn't hear about it. He said it was better for him to stay with Yakov and Lilia. I wonder if we should have insisted more."

"I wonder that too, sometimes," Otabek says. Yuuri doesn't ask for clarification.)

 

There is a Thai Airways flight from Fukuoka to Bangkok, Otabek learns. He was supposed to fly Korean Air from Tokyo but Viktor changed the plan for him.

"You must fly with Yuuri and Phichit, why would you go on your own," he says, like it's a valid excuse for spending an undisclosed amount of money on a flight which Otabek could have as well taken from somewhere else. There is no point in arguing with Viktor, he has learned; unless you're Yuuri, you stand no chance.

Otabek posts a photo of Yuuri and Phichit, sleeping on each other's shoulders, waiting at the gate. yuri-plistesky likes it immediately. He doesn't leave any comment though. Otabek finds himself wishing Yuri did, they used to. They used to write a lot, sometimes from their fake accounts so that no one would recognize the names. It used to be fun. Otabek doesn't have the reason to do it anymore.

There is a lot he doesn't do, little things he notices with time. Watching those forsaken cat videos. Commenting on skaters' old programs; he hasn’t watched any on Youtube in a while. Yuri loved it, especially the classics of Russians, the more ridiculous the better. Otabek hasn't spoken mock-French in months. He doesn't use Skype anymore, either. The lone notification reminding him about an update gets dismissed every single time it appears. He doesn't really know who to ask for opinion on his costumes to expect a honest and helpful answer, even if sometimes it might be _it will be the most boring costume of the season, so it suits you perfectly fine_.

There are so many places in his life where Yuri has been. Otabek is not ready to fill them with the world, yet. For now, he settles on nursing the hollow feeling, until he's ready to let go of it.

 

Thailand is awfully hot. The cool air of the rink has never felt that soothing.

Phichit's costumes are ridiculous, which only reassures Otabek that the Thai is not the one to ask for on-ice fashion advice. He goes with it, though, because he's too old to be self-conscious, and it does turn out to be lots of fun; the crowd is so different from Japan. It's mostly families with children, young people, instead of the typical Japanese middle-aged ladies. Otabek has never been to Thailand and, barring the weather, he enjoys it immensely. It's overwhelming, in a good way, stealing all his attention. That's what he needs right now.

On the day of the last show, he's stretching before the last evening performance and scrolling through the notifications on his phone absentmindedly; there is one that catches his attention.  It's a post of Yuri's, geotagged in Paris. There are pointe shoes, placed neatly on a wooden floor, and Yuri's feet next to them; only a scrape, clear of blisters. It's tagged #ballet and #finally and the description says _ankle training_.

Otabek double-taps without hesitation. Paris, huh?

He takes a photo of his feet, still awfully bruised from breaking into a new pair of boots he just got in Japan, and sends it to Yuri.

When he checks instagram after the show, the old photo has a new tag, #before, and there is another one, in which Yuri's feet look a bit more gruesome: Otabek winces at the purple toes. The description under this one says #after.

It makes Otabek happier than it should and he explores the rare, light feeling as long as he can.

 

For the rest of off-season, Otabek observes. Yuri posts photos sometimes, once in a week or so, a training snapshots most of the time, but none of it is skating, and in none of the his face is visible. It's mostly little things. He never replies to any comments. The geotag changes a lot until, in late August, it disappears.

After Thailand, Otabek goes back home. He takes his older cousins on a weekend trip to the mountains. They celebrate Eid-al-Adha with the whole family, which would be far too many people to bear if it happened more often than once a year. Otabek perfects his programs, bit by bit, every day. He's confident he can get maximum GEO on the loop-loop. He attends a dance class that is not ballet. He goes out with friends, listens to music, and makes music. He reads and rides the bike at night and runs for miles and miles. He keeps himself busy.

Yuri sends him a photo now and then, never captioned, never explained. Otabek recognizes the background in a few of them – NYC, Milan, Moscow – but mostly, they are little things, like a pair of shiny black shoes, or a tropical-looking flower. It doesn't make much sense but Otabek plays along, even though he's not sure what they are doing. He doesn't read into it.  It's… casual. That's a good word. It hurts. He lets it be.

 

The first competition of the season in NHK Trophy, to which Otabek has been assigned, along with Skate America. How typical: he's done Skate America a nauseating number of times; it's always a madhouse.

Sometime in late September he gets the message.

 _can you come early_ , it says. It's from Yuri, of course; pretty much everyone Otabek knows makes more sense than that.

 _to japan_ , a clarification comes twenty-three seconds later.

Instead of an explanation, Yuri sends him a selfie. He's wearing a mask, his hair is down, ruffled by the wind. He's standing on a beach with a familiar buildings behind; it can only be one place – when did that happen, Otabek wonders; later, that's what he types, too, and Yuri replies instantly, _do u have the tickets already?_

Otabek doesn't say the truth, that he doesn't, because Yuri would probably end up buying them. Instead he look at the calendar, exchanges a few quick words with coach ( _will you be able to come early_ and _I will arrange some ice time with Nikiforov, is that okay_ , and so on), and changes the date in his planner from 18th to 11th. He books the ticket the next morning and forwards the email to Yuri.

Some things never change, apparently. They still don't talk. He is still surprised with how relieved he is, at the thought of seeing Yuri, when he almost fooled himself into believing he can let him go.

 

When Otabek arrives in Fukuoka, it's Viktor to pick him up at the airport. Otabek didn’t exactly ask explicitly, but he figured that was the case, Yuri staying with Viktor and Yuuri. So there's that. How they made up is just as unclear as why they stopped talking in the first place. Maybe it's one of those things Yuri has been doing all those months. It's good to see him looking back, Otabek thinks, and realizing he hasn't quite burnt all the bridges. No matter how long it took, and how much effort, it ultimately seems good for Yuri.

When they enter the flat, Yuri's sitting at the flower-adorned dining table, legs drawn to his chest, scrolling through his phone. He looks up at the noise and gives Otabek a small smile: he looks better, Otabek notices instantly. He's put a bit of weight back on – it must have been recently because there is still the most delicate softness to his features – and cut his hair a little bit shorter than it was, so it dances around his chin. It suits him. The clothes still look more pretty than useful, though; some things never change. Otabek smiles inwardly at the thought.

"Morning," Yuri says and receives a deserved glare, since Otabek's overnight flight was nowhere in the comfortable range of experience. On the bright side, at least he won't have to rush training himself out of the cramps it gave him, since it's a few days to the competition.

"Morning, Yura," his stare softens as he plays along anyway. Viktor smiles and claps his hands, an enthusiastic gesture he never got rid of.

"I need to go now – Yuuri will be home in an hour. Otabek, I will see you at the rink at five," he says, pointing his finger at Otabek, who only now realizes that the sleeves of his shirt have golden-coloured, shiny cuffs, which match his shoes, equally questionable black suede loafers with a pattern of golden studs. At least it's easy to tell who Yuri takes after.

Otabek nods in agreement; a moment later Viktor is gone.

He need to unpack, sleep a little, ready himself for the evening –

"Whatever you are thinking, we're getting food first. Unless you're barbaric enough that you ate all that airplane food."

"It was overcooked pasta with overcooked vegetables. I have standards."

"I'd hope so," Yuri nods.

Otabek leaves his luggage in the guest room and follows Yuri outside. He's letting Yuri, who clearly has a destination in mind, lead him through the familiar paths of the park and then into a maze of streets, until they arrive at an old-fashioned café. Yuri orders for them both, without asking Otabek's opinion, in staggered Japanese. The waitress smiles at him a little more than absolutely required, and doesn't write anything down.

"I like to come here," Yuri confirms Otabek's thought, "it's quiet. The food's good."

"The waitress fancies you."

"Shut up," Yuri says, not meaning it. He thanks the waitress when she brings them hot hojicha, and glares at Otabek as if daring him to say anything else. Otabek doesn't, not for a while; they sit in silence until the omurice arrives. 

"So, I _came early_ ," he stares with just the appropriate amount of sarcasm, when they're almost finished. Yuri is playing with his chopsticks. He looks up when Otabek speaks, giving him a vacant look. Otabek stares back, hoping that his look can convey _it's just a week before major competition and I changed all my plans to come and see you without asking for any explanation: this is what I am willing to do for you, can't you see it_. He's not sure it works.

"Mhm."

"Yura."

There, he's allowed to be a little impatient, isn't he?

"There is something I wanted to ask you to help me with," Yuri finally stops distracting himself and puts the chopsticks back onto the table. "It won't take much time, or anything. I know I shouldn't have asked you to come right now, but I wasn't sure you'd be around again. And. I took a while."

"That you did," Otabek doesn't pretend. There's no need, he thinks, not now. They are here, and maybe finally, _finally_ , they can be honest.

"I came here in September," Yuri says, confirming Otabek's suspicions. "I let Yuuri know earlier, and I showed up. Viktor was… well. It was a bit. Something. Yuuri arranged with Mila to have my stuff sent, the things I didn't care to take. They didn't ask. I just found that they had a room ready for me, and my skates were waiting for me. Neither of them said a thing."

Otabek nods. He wouldn’t expect that to require any explanation, not between them.

"I didn't touch them for a few days. It was a little tense, though Yuuri was, you know. Like he is," Yuri rolls his eyes. "He took me to a ballet class with him and all that. But they didn't ask for explanations."

"Not like I did."

"Not like you did, and pretty much everyone else in the world. But then, I figured, they both knew what it feels like, at least a bit. Wanting to quit. Wanting out. So..."

"Then you did take the skates."

Yuri nods. He says something to the waitress, who comes back before Otabek can formulate a question in his head. He lets Yuri pay and follows him outside. There is a wind rising, remotely scented like the sea, so Otabek wraps his scarf a little bit tighter and zips up his coat. Yuri doesn't seem to notice the cold sweeps of air at all.

"I'm not coming back," he says, and Otabek almost misses it, words stolen away by the wind, drowning among the dry leaves rustling as they dance along the street. He comes up closer, just a step behind Yuri, and waits.

They walk in unison.

"But I'm not finished just yet," Yuri adds, and when he looks back, Otabek has already schooled his expression into what Yuri used to call _war face_.

He is here. He will do what Yuri needs him to do.

 

The practice goes well, even if Otabek's mind was mostly elsewhere; he is doing well enough for Viktor not to call him out on that. Unless he's lenient because he knew what being here meant for Otabek. Maybe a mix of both. Viktor has this little smile on his lips every time Otabek does the loop-loop. It feels so good today, so easy. He feels light, and ready, ready like never before.

Yuri arrives at nine, when Otabek is finished for the day and the rink is almost deserted. He's wearing training gear and what looks like Viktor's coat, with how big it seems on Yuri's shoulders.

He didn't touch the ice for eight months, Otabek thinks, watching from the vantage point of would-be Kiss and Cry as Yuri leans against the boards and takes off the guards and places them carefully on the floor by the entrance. He's skated some in the last couple of weeks, of course, but Otabek can't shake off the strange feeling: he himself hasn't been off ice longer than a month since he first stated, a clumsy kid, five years of age. He can't imagine how the ice must feel under someone's feet after so long.

But even if Yuri hasn't been skating much, he fit right back onto the ice; it's natural.

He warms up a little, changing directions, speeding up and slowing down, stretching his hands high above his head, crouching to let his fingers trace the ice; it's maybe three minutes before he stops in the middle of the rinks and takes a pose.

It's – something else.

Otabek watches.

In theory, the routine is not difficult – just one quad, mostly triples, not even enough to fit free skate requirements. Mostly, Yuri dances. He dances a love song, a song about falling in love, the first love, rapid and harsh and silly, like he's never touched ice before. Reluctant, building up slowly, hungrily, without a pause, it keeps going, unbelievably precise transitions, steps and more steps, steps slipping in and out of figures, as if a homage to a different era in history, as if a testament, or a plea. Yuri keeps his head high, looking ahead, up, most of the time, apart from a longing haze at the beautifully marred ice whenever he skates the whole length in smooth, powerful strokes.

He seems – free.

He doesn't smile his way through the routine, not really, but there is tranquillity to his eyes that he never managed to convey even at the heights of _Agape_ ; more than that, there is peace. Like a wild animal set free, one that finally arrived home. 

Otabek observes, transfixed, and thinks that it's as if they've only ever seen Yuri warm up, something final always missing. As if they've never seen him really skate – that very moment, the realisation all comes to Otabek at once, an image so vivid and powerful that he finds himself scared: he sees what Yuri could have been, if everything happened differently. If at the very moment when people start defining themselves, Yuri hadn't taken himself apart and allowed others put him back together as they wished… And that was only the prologue.

But Yuri's skating was never him. It was whatever would win.

And the spectacle unfolding before Otabek's eyes is more than that: it's a dream found, building up in one's chest, bold and bright and breathtaking, the first dream of a child.

Otabek wonders if that is what Yuri realised, that one moment, right before he made his decision, what he's been missing. What is must have felt like, the dizzying realisation, something so simple that he had to go against the whole world for!

If Yuri was almost unbeatable until now, broken, _limited_ , the potential of what he could be – could have been…

Yuri slips into layback spin, his hair like a golden crown, eyes closed, the rotation speeding up smoothly.

This is the reply, Otabek understands. Here are all the answers he's been begging for. For years. Here is everything he needs to know, and it's so clear: Yuri could never give him another answer because this is the only language he knows. He's found his words. Yuri's blades write the sentences of the story, along with his arms and the lines of his legs and shoulders. Impeccable when he needs it to be, and soft, almost mellow, when he lets it be, at the end.

(There was this sentence one painter put onto his self-portrait, Otabek read once. _If the art of painting was lost, he is the one who gave it back to the world. If it was never invented, he is the one who brought it this far._ He remembers thinking that was horribly conceited. But now he looks as Yuri – and it makes sense.)

Yuri skates up to him, when he's done, a little bit out of shape, breathing fast, cheeks flushed.

Otabek wants to kiss him right now, he wants it so much, the urge warm in the pit of his stomach; he wants this beautiful man to be his, in his arms, forever. But he doesn't dare a kiss; there will be better time for that. Now, he's as certain that he will wait as he was certain that he would leave.

Was it only yesterday he feared what all this meant?

It seems so far away, all of sudden.

He settles for a smile. Yuri – Yuri smiles back. It's shy and sloppy and beautiful. There's something to his eyes that makes him look like he's aged a century in just a day.

"I want you to help me film it," Yuri says and Otabek agrees with a hum, easily. Everything, he thinks. Anything. "The costume will be ready tomorrow. It'll break the internet, you know," Yuri jokes easily, but then his face turns serious in an instant. He almost hesitates – but dares to ask. "Do you get it, now?"

The rink feels so much smaller, all of sudden.

Otabek nods.

Yuri turns around to face the rink, and whispers, "this is a goodbye."

 

Otabek posts a photo on his instagram when they're back in the flat, one he took right before they left: a photo of Yuri, standing lone in the middle of the ice in his final pose, his figure dark like a shadow. He doesn’t need to say it's Yuri: his posture has always been unmistakable.

The lonely tag under the photo is #getready.

This is a beginning, Otabek thinks.

It's a nice thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story idea came from a vision of Yuri doing his version of what Polunin did with "Take Me to Church" which I hope you are all familiar with!
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope you have enjoyed the story. I would be very grateful if you were lovely enough to leave me a comment. I'd love to hear your thoughts, the best motivation for more YOI stories :)


End file.
